From the sink
I open the window to you,
the flower picker. Red handled
scissors grasping green grace
as you top the spent poppies
at the edge of the garden, bathed in light,
color, and the late August sun.
Sunday’s tradition bakes
on a bare arm. Cups of red tea
hold the last sip for good measure,
the folding chairs, as if from Solomon’s
tent, speak of wisdom’s triumph
over gravity, and the genius of a cat
Troubles make their own fence,
the gate hanging like a dog’s tongue,
the song of the sky is another blues,
the tintinnabular voice of humming
alarms going silent.
The rest is easy.
Trust, the blankest page in the book,
waits for a pen, that waits for a hand,
that waits for God,
Who waits, like the rest of us,
for the weekend.