sunday is a teacup in bloom
when time laundered hangs out to dry
its soft fabric flutters despite the stillness of air
i hear the hum of my thoughts as my heart beat strolls
on the paradise of summer where wind is stingy with its kisses
sunday is the soft bed i lie in with my dog
with crumpled sheets that tell me life is good
as the noonday sun hovers longer than it should
and people go to pray to the God of all our days
so i say, You can remove all days but not
sunday, when my teacup is in bloom, and
Peace drops by the front porch, and puts his feet up
as Love waters the plants
that grow tall, an inch or so,
each sunday.