it certainly is a sunday today.
Sunday's have a certain feel to them, if every day of the week had a persona, Sunday would be the mourning widow.
Sometimes it's a Saturday, late morning. through the cracks of my blinds on the otherside of the glass, there is a flat grey sky, no birds chirping, and no sound of traffic down below. That makes me say on a Saturday "Feels like Sunday today."
But this is a real Sunday's Sunday.
A poem by Tom Snyder comes to mind:
MORNING: A BENEDICTION
In my solemn bathrobe in no hurry,
after coffee and the mandatory fanfare
of bird songs at 5:am.,
I somehow remove
my head.
This is brighter--
light blossoms the room
My head was the last thing needed.
I hold it in my lap like an infant
and watch the eyelids fall.
I stroke the cap of hair.
Something gentle
returns, the universe is tender.
I forgive you, head. I forgive you.
Sunday's have a certain feel to them, if every day of the week had a persona, Sunday would be the mourning widow.
Sometimes it's a Saturday, late morning. through the cracks of my blinds on the otherside of the glass, there is a flat grey sky, no birds chirping, and no sound of traffic down below. That makes me say on a Saturday "Feels like Sunday today."
But this is a real Sunday's Sunday.
A poem by Tom Snyder comes to mind:
MORNING: A BENEDICTION
In my solemn bathrobe in no hurry,
after coffee and the mandatory fanfare
of bird songs at 5:am.,
I somehow remove
my head.
This is brighter--
light blossoms the room
My head was the last thing needed.
I hold it in my lap like an infant
and watch the eyelids fall.
I stroke the cap of hair.
Something gentle
returns, the universe is tender.
I forgive you, head. I forgive you.
trixel:
my sunday felt like a street kid recovering in sanitorium after a meth binge. or something like that. 
