Sabbath Morning

Time changed last night – springing forward,
morphing into something
brighter and warmer.

Coffee and Book and morning prayer- a type of trinity.
I flip through onion-skin pages, gold-edged,
the color of spilt milk. They whisper, soft
under my fingers, soothing to my soul.
Moses preaches to the Israelites –
parsing curses and blessings,
then Paul to the Galatians –
harvesting fruits of the Spirit.

I breathe in steam from my cup,
and breathe out supplications from my heart –

and try very hard to listen.

Coffee cold, I start the slow slide into the day. Chicken
soup put on to simmer in a favorite pot.
Sweet cornbread mixed, ready to bake.
A load of laundry folded, towels and
wash clothes sandwich-stacked,
socks reunited.

I feel like a swimmer poised on the block,
tensed, waiting for the horn signaling
permission to dive into a new week.
Breakfast, then church and lunch,
flip turn and a long afternoon nap,
dinner and coffee with friends.

Yesterday was 24 years. I do the math in my
head as I fold his t-shirt – one thousand two
hundred and forty eight weeks. I smile and
pray for the grace of more.

This Sabbath morning is a pause, a great comma in the
run-on sentence that is my life. Grandma said idle
hands are the Devil’s workshop. I think busy
hands are his anesthesia, keeping us from
feeling the warm breath of the
Spirit on our necks, noticing
His hand slipping into ours.

The ceiling creaks, someone else is awake.
I hear water running in an upstairs
bathroom. Time is a changeling
I have almost
caught.