Not Sunday

I don’t care what they say. It’s mid-February and lambs and kids are about to be in the world. Buds are taking the dare that it will be warm enough for them to peek out and I am on the move to home (whatever that looks like).

This poem – I have shared it before – always makes me think of the literal and figurative changing of seasons. Happy Not Sunday!

As if some monk bored
in the cold scriptorium
had let his quill
wander from the morning
Gospel, two tendrils
of wisteria
have scrolled
their green fervor
into the weave of a wicker
deck chair to whisper
with each spiral,
every sweet leaf
and dew sparkle:
Brother, come
with us, come home.
R. T. Smith, “Illumination”

 

 

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