A Sunday Poem on Saturday
Years have seasons, and so do weeks and days; flavors, baseball cards of life, something to collect and cherish.
I’ve running up and down the road. Sometimes I shake the dust from my hair and feel weary. Others I remember what it is we all get to do every day: reach out, shake a hand, and smile at our neighbor.
A busy calendar for me is lots of conversation, with some records and Elvis tunes thrown in.
“Think I should change my name to J.D. Urban to be writer fancy?” I asked some pals on the dementia ward. A little Italian lady, clean out of her mind, raised an eyebrow and said nothing (for once).
The boss lady followed suit.
J.D?
"Alright, alright, fine, I’ll keep it Josh.”
God bless ‘em for keeping me in line.
That’s a Thursday.
The daffodils are blooming in thick rafts wayside in Nelson county, and I’m off to get eggs at the farmer’s market, wish a friend a happy birthday, and go hiking with dad.
That’s a Saturday.
Here’s a poem for tomorrow that I wrote last Sunday, for a Sunday. Perhaps it’ll be useful tomorrow, on the last Sunday of winter (and St. Patrick’s day, now that I realize).
A Sunday Evening, Windy in March
Sunday in March
is the Sunday of Winter drawing closed, packing up shop, off to slumber by the plastic Santas in the garden shed of a place I used to know (but can never visit)
The mason’s blocks sit quiet
As the wind swoops down from the mountain, ruffling the pond
Adding to the stillness, and the waiting, the waiting
Of the slanting sun in the purple cloud sky, while the fields gently turn green again
A pause, exhale, Sunday of the week and the season
Waiting, waiting, till the marrow to hustle and hum like the bees that will live in the empty hive that I set out to coax them to take up residence in
Come July and Tuesday, things will be noise
A thousand pixels of information and concrete and coffee and “that’s a deal!”
But the cinterblocks sit quiet
As the last rays of the winter sun
glance off the empty railroad track
I guess we’re all waiting for
something.