Sunday Afternoon

Slow ministrations,
and tender they are.
 
A child’s trusting questions;
a maid’s querying scruple.
 
A gentle zephyr
ruffles sparrow wings.
The book in my hand
settles to my thigh,
My bent fore-finger
piercing its pages.
 
My weary spirit weighted
by trenchant worldly worries.
 
The quack of a drake;
a fluttering finch;
The whisper of wind
through rose-red leaves.
The white petal-head
nodding in the breeze.
 
A hard-backed wooden chair,
and welcome interruptions.
 
Cross my scarred heart
adheres a fragile
epithelial;
Layer’d by the voice
Elijah perceiv’d
upon Mount Horeb.

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