On this Sunday morning
may you bask in the warm
comforting arms of life,
enfolded thus, you are
emboldened in speech
and in your reach,
out beyond the crumbling
stuccoed walls and two
storied suburban homes
to where the grand lake
lies blue, fertile and fresh,
where silver geckos scurry
and laze on smooth boulders
and fish swim this fall day
away in secret peccadillos,
while above, fishermen languish
underneath a wide cerulean sky,
sit so quietly here, they could
not care less about a catch,
they know like the fish
and the lizards
and these clouds
drifting free in such
spaciousness
where they want to
be caught.
No comments:
Post a Comment