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.