Sunday

Dawn breaks

as the world rolls slowly over

town by town, country by country,

into a rising tide of Sunday.

The first wave 

lapping at your toes

as we lay together,

breakfast in bed

after one more kiss

one more dream,

then a peek through the curtains

at Sunday skies.

Ankle deep in Sunday,

the possibilities of the day

buzzing like summer bees

drifting on the smell of bacon and coffee.

All God's children

wading through their sins

on the penitent path

seek forgiveness 

in their own way and place,

alone or together,

because that's what they've always done

on Sunday.

A day of chores, a day of rest,

naps on couches and freshly mown grass,

games watched and played,

gardens, parks, beaches,

bike rides and trail walks

when someone looks at the sky and says

“The day is half gone already!”

and you realize

you are waist-deep in Sunday.

Sunday Dinner,

the meal for family

here and remembered

as waves of Sunday pound your chest,

a toast to love and health,

grateful

for one more Sunday.

Too tired to tread Sunday waters,

with one big breath

you slip under,

drifting

until dream tide leaves you 

to wake on gentle shores,

as the world rolls slowly over 

town by town, country by country

into a rising tide of Monday.

Ken Owen     October 2013

Van Niddy Press