Sunday Mornings

“On Sunday morning I went out for a while in the neighbourhood; I bought some raisin bread. The day was warm but a little sad, as Sundays often are in Paris, especially when one doesn’t believe in God.” - Michel Houellebecq

Near where I live
is a Quaker meeting house,
and an Anglican church
I’ve been in once,
but only to help with a stall
at a farmer’s market.

On hot and humid
Sunday mornings,
I sit on a bench
in the shadow of a tree,
and watch the leaves
and motes of dust,
falling like notes
in a composition,
intended to celebrate days like this.

When you don’t believe in God, the bliss
you find in looking at churches
on hot and humid Sunday mornings
is just a little sad,
but all the more
intensely beautiful for that.
The days of work pass in a bat
of Time’s eyelids.

Away, the Saturday sabbath light burns.
Sunday morning;
the light returns.

I felt a part of me    
grow back  
when I drove into the dusty lot    
of the flea market.    
    
Sunday crowds blossomed--    
early risers, bustling    
between tables    
already filling their shopping bags    
at 6am.    
   
Not a moment to waste--    
thoughts of arranging my wares    
collided with a tinge of anxiety    
over getting one of the last vendor tables left.    
   
Wasn't the one I'd hoped for, but    
God was still there in the clear blue sky    
and the too-tall grass, damp with dew, making    
me glad I wore my rain boots    
just in case of this.    
   
God was there in each thing I sold, each    
purge of space in my truck.    
   
He was there in the little Spanish boy    
who fell in love with my daughter's giant teddy bear    
that she no longer wanted, and    
he just had to have it--  wrapped    
in a big bag, too, so he could carry the bear.  
(There was the reason I felt compelled  
to bring a yard-waste sized bag...)
   
God was there in the old hippie    
carrying a protest sign about    
the excesses of America, and    
He was there at the booth    
where I buy my paintbrushes    
for a dollar, each.    
   
I must keep this with me , always--    
the way the world dissolves    
and sloughs off    
among familiar faces, the regulars, friends  
and those I've never met, until now  
for Sunday morning , the light  
returns .

It's been raining on and off.
I've been hurting recently,
a strange spot of darkness,
because I'm single and yearn
for a mate.

But now,
I'm in bed, listening to the gentle taps and patters, the soft music the rain makes, awash in a sea of pillows
and blankets. The cats are curled protectively around me.
I've been sleepy all day, and I nap
for bits and pieces of the day, wake up and nap again. I feel safe, warm,
and cozy. Okay to be alone.

It's a nice feeling.

Sunday morning;
the light returns.

My damaged head reminds me  
how much wine I took to bed,  
still unsure on legs that stamp  
each step.  
 
The bathroom slaps me cold  
in my feeling old, can't handle it face.  
Piss proud I lean cheek first  
and taste the dry streaks of  
toothpaste on the mirror.  

The angry kettle spills hot  
as I yawn into caffeine,  
still wrapped in a quilt.  
I slide back the conservatory door  
and bathe in a burst of warm air.  
My favourite sun-bleached chair  
has been harvesting heat,  
enough to feed my aches for a while.  
 
The dog finishes off my cereal bowl  
then curls like a cat on my lap.
Her bad breath asks a question
of why we eat our own weekly shit
and the answer is simply Sunday morning;
the light returns.