I have the same emotional response to Thursday as I do to Monday.
I’m jolted by the reality that I am here, in this place.
How did a weekend escape, a week slip by?
Monday and Thursday turn in tandem, polar poles pushing against each other:
and I am caught up in their dance.
She slipped through the hole,
Unbeknownst to us.
The torn screen door banging against its frame.
A pale looper caught up in a breeze not quite summer, but harbinger just the same.
Dressed in dusty layers too fragile to touch,
Not that we would, we cannot see her,
But we can sense the change.
The air is sweeter.
Photo: Campaea perlata “Pale Beauty” on my porch ceiling.
Some keep the Sabbath going to Church-
I keep it, staying at Home-
With a Bobolink for a Chorister-
And an Orchard, for a Dome-
Some keep the Sabbath in Surplice-
I just wear my Wings-
And instead of tolling the Bell, for Church,
Our little Sexton-sings.
God preaches, a noted Clergyman-
And the sermon is never long,
So instead of getting to Heaven, at least-
I’m going, all along. Â ~~Emily Dickinson
A special thank you to Gwen, for sending me the poem. It serves as a lovely way to begin again.
