Poem: Sunday

Sunday

The faith was gone, but not the spirit. One Sunday I felt suffocated, among the darkened room of my home, the summer’s heat outside. I didn’t want to be with my friend anymore, so I moved my car, parked it under heavy trees along a lonely road. I walked back with the keys, a little deceptive. Everything changed when I opened my front door. The cautious atmosphere that I felt before, among thick draped curtains, crowded with dust, became a backdrop of forest and river. A gate opened without a lock, and across a field of sunflowers, foraging parrots were pretty in pink feather. A children’s playground in twisted Escher turns bespoke large green ladders to long blue holes. I was able to walk along feeling the tingle of new sounds, the hum of a busy road, and I knew when I drove home that Sunday night, I would sleep well and dream.