Sunday Streets
The still pavement
holds layers of light movement,
life aloft,
like comforting down
on this different, slow day.
held in quiet, a soft sound
muffled by Sunday feet,
a hush of the every day
that covers them
throughout the week.
travelers less hurried
round the roads and corners,
sure of time,
if not standing still,
at least looking for them
to come.
the walls are welcome,
awaiting worship--
which only starts
when the people
leave their Sunday streets
and sit
and settle
and raise a song
one can only
sing on Sundays.
~~~~~~~~~
linking with the folks at dVerse Poetry, for Open Link Night, and for the first time with Imaginary Garden with Real Toads.
