POETRY
Sunday
This is the meat of the day,
when action and activity is piled
high upon the plates
in heaping portions.
Yet somewhere, tucked in
a pocket, is the idea of a nap.
A post-promise renewal nap
beacons on Sundays.
When, having rooted in
the pantry like a pica through its haypile,
having filled the body with portions
and having put away the plates,
while the sun sparkles through the plate
glass windows, the mind naps,
for the minutes portioned
out to form a restful day.
Laundry slumbers in its pile,
stowed in hampers’ den.
The lazy plane drone drifting in
echoes off the plates
carefully piled
in cabinets, humming naptime
lullabies. This seventh day
put into proportion.
The Lamb, who generously portions
out His mercy, in
keeping with the nature of the day,
curls up…
