Sunday


Sundays I move quiet

through house street wood

listening for birdsong

wave off voices of what should

Sundays I step slow

close observe neighbourhood

Sunday time

sunrise to dreamline—

all mine.

 

 

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Endings


Maybe a thousand years from now

when no one knows my name

the one who finds the note I write

slipped between these silent walls tonight

will know this was once my house

surrounded by these tall pine woods

where I wandered with wild lilies, spring roses, and butterflies

where I stood looking up to wide open starry skies

talking with the moon

where I lit candles in empty rooms

And I photographed my cat

who sat waiting patiently near the door

so she wouldn’t be left behind.

Mirror

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One eyelid seems to droop lower than the other

think I’m slowly starting to look like my mother

and yeah that scares me a little

 

What’s happening to my skin

is there hair growing on my chin

maybe my eyes deceive me again

 

And who knows where this train’s going

there’s some fool’s grace in hardly knowing

I got a ticket is all that ought concern me

 

There are still teeth behind these lips

still plenty rhythm dancing in these hips

Gratitude is the jewel I’ll hold onto.