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.
maggiemaeijustsaythis 