My success lies in Sundays,
when the sun lays its rays
warmly on me reclined,
while my body hums a
eucharistic hymn and my soul
remembers how to sing.
Bread and wine linger in
my flesh and memory and
I wonder if what could be
did in fact happen to me.
I take stock of myself and
all there is while the breeze
breathes and my collars lap
like waves upon the shore.
Blessings are measured in
grateful sips—a mug lifted to lips.
I spill ink and I will think
of how richly he arrays my days
and when the sun's light dyes
the buildings rose and gold
I know the eve is not far
with which he dazzles the eyes
today as in those times of old
with many a precious star.
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