A Sabbath Poem

I wrote this last Spring on a Sunday afternoon.  A foray into a different genre of writing for Lent.  I find it more frightening to share poetry than other forms of writing but I came back to this particular poem today as I look out the window and drink my tea.  The buds opened, of course, and are now a deep maroon red.  The heron is gone for the winter and I’m struck by how it all persists along its quiet, unhurried way.

Sabbath

The heron leaps headlong, glides
Lands on rocks by water
falling

Ducks go bottom up,
and right side up again
in the brown-yellow brush

Saplings with bantam buds
in no rush
to open

Everything here does hurry shun
I distend my belly
a yogi’s breath

Sip

my

tea

slowly

Attempt assimilation