Not In These Years

Delicious Sunday,
absent of the jam of people,
of masquerade.

My kite lifts off fevered shoulders,
enters frothy clouds to
mourn buried dreams and fly.

Asleep, on grass waves, I surrender
to stillness,
expecting great ends to
fall upon me.

I have won no roses
by thievery, I am oiled,
scented by the White snake
who coils her spirit as an
act of love.

If I was a child, I would
have expected this,
but not today. Not in
these years.