Sunday Walk

We walked between the trees on a Sunday,

the pollen falling in our hair.

We didn’t care as long as the colors

came out every year.

You loved the way things grew and I

loved how you talked about miracles,

better for your lungs than oxygen’s clear

stream.

 

I remember when Sundays grew heavy

on my skin, a southern spirit

singing some nameless dread.

I could never put my finger on it,

but I tucked it in my bed

every week, waking and wearing it, my Monday

dress. I welcomed the rain

to soothe the burn;

puddles to fill the holes dotting the streets.

That day, you said, a turbulent day

of mystic rest.

Sunday was a bitter apple and I, ravenous

at the table.

 

So this is the sea; the great distance

linking two worlds, two masses held

spinning on fire, waiting to be joined

again. These trees, the sprawling stance

of the oak and we crane our necks to spy on the leaves,

the only familiar line. 

Take your boat, let’s row to the top

in these green waters, once red.

We’ll make our own nest against the thread

of sun and moon.

We’ll fly on this Sunday, changing the grey

sky to blue with our touch. 

 

©Ashley Herring Blake 2015