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
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