A Sabbath Poem
I wrote this last Spring on a Sunday afternoon. A foray into a different genre of writing for Lent. I find it more frightening to share poetry than other forms of writing but I came back to this particular poem today as I look out the window and drink my tea. The buds opened, of course, and are now a deep maroon red. The heron is gone for the winter and I’m struck by how it all persists along its quiet, unhurried way.
Sabbath
The heron leaps headlong, glides
Lands on rocks by water
falling
Ducks go bottom up,
and right side up again
in the brown-yellow brush
Saplings with bantam buds
in no rush
to open
Everything here does hurry shun
I distend my belly
a yogi’s breath
Sip
my
tea
slowly
Attempt assimilation