Sunday Morning
From the pulpit a grim gray man
wrapped in a starched white gown
extols the virtues of patience and obedience
moderation and self denial. I should be listening.
But after a sentence or two I've stopped,
choosing instead to look out the side window
into a garden filled with red tulips and purple hyacinths.
I'd like to be there, barefoot in the young grass,
elbow deep in the earth weeding, watering, helping things to grow.
Perhaps a nap under the blossoming crab apples,
the breeze riffling the hem of my dress.
But now, it is time to rise from the hard black pews,
recite the Creed, sing the Agnus Dei, receive the bread
until, blessed and free we are sent forth into the spring sunshine and wind.
From the pulpit a grim gray man
wrapped in a starched white gown
extols the virtues of patience and obedience
moderation and self denial. I should be listening.
But after a sentence or two I've stopped,
choosing instead to look out the side window
into a garden filled with red tulips and purple hyacinths.
I'd like to be there, barefoot in the young grass,
elbow deep in the earth weeding, watering, helping things to grow.
Perhaps a nap under the blossoming crab apples,
the breeze riffling the hem of my dress.
But now, it is time to rise from the hard black pews,
recite the Creed, sing the Agnus Dei, receive the bread
until, blessed and free we are sent forth into the spring sunshine and wind.
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