Sunday Poem by Wayne Jackson

this whispering morning settles
about this appled house
to start the process
of another sleepy Sunday

These coffeed comforting thoughts
melt midnight’s minutes into memory,
they have no power here
at this august desk
with my laughing pencil
in this dust filled room smelling of paper.
Pushing February back with words
hurling his icy breath elsewhere.
My boy plays outside
kicking dead sticks in tennis shoes
My wife,
humming softly a tune I do not know
forks happy dirt into flower pots.
My boy laughs
my wife sings
My pencil slides
an easy passion
on an easy Sunday