Sundays

On Sundays
I like to let
the fabric of my being
hang a little loose.
To let it float around
aired out by the autumn breeze.
Puffed and fluffed
along with the milk weed
and skipping dry brown oak leaves.

On Sundays
I like to let
the silence fill me up with its emptiness.
Leaving me almost transparent,
so the bird and bug sounds pass right through me,
along with the wind.

It is as though
the stuff of me wants to match with the outdoors so that I am woven
into the landscape.

My faun colored
silk scarf drapes
and folds itself into the dried milkweed
and grasses by the road side.

The dusty rouge
of my hat meanders
its way through the crimson high bush blueberry leaves
and perches on the smooth, winding branches.

The moss green
of my sweater lays out along the path,
the short pile matching almost exactly the texture
of that cushiony plant.

And my azure
jeans float into a pool,
joining with the deep blue of the sky
and at the same time the mysterious dark of the ponds.

It is almost as though I could disappear.

People might say, I wonder
what has happened to Lily…

They wouldn’t know
they were walking by me,
under, over
and around me.

Little would they know that I had become
a part of the day.

That I had joined my voice
with the song of the sea breeze
and I was working on a lullaby for the crows.

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