... poems ..., ... space ..., ...poet

Sunday

Every thing
in Nature is
eventually faced
with the question
of The nature
of things; the startled
reflection of
the Doe, sipping
face down from
the perfect surface
of a crystal lake,

or the way you
stare at yourself
in passing
windows,
as if you were
watching some stranger,

misty morn,
invisible chirps
weave chords-

black to gray
to green;
and no eyes
were ever so
blessed to
see, the
awakening
of all things.

the world undulates
in intangible cold,
lost forever tethered
by cords of Darkness,

still I pause
at the beginning
of time; Sunday
has crept up on
me again.

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One thought on “Sunday

  1. I like what you’re doing in these lines. That image of the doe is very effective: it’s appropriate and done in a few effective words. Equally windows and the chirps of birdsong in the mist. “Cords of darkness” is less to my personal taste but that last stanza is the perfect closure, with Sunday creeping up again! Delightful ending, and it takes us back to the beginning too.

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