On a Sunday without sun.
A day of Revelations,
-without all the Light.
I think of how my elderly mother
is likely being beaten
down and on
by her husband...
I think of how the man
who says he loves me
is likely cheating
on me and is always down around me...
I think of my adult children
and how they have struggled with me
and grown still
suspicious
all the more-
none the less,
I think of all of the sandcastles I have built,
now perfectly indistinguishable from all
other failures;
grains, hairs, skin flakes and ashes
that I have left
strewn around trying to blend in...
I think I have been told my whole life
to put it down-
I think I misunderstood.
I wonder how
I could ever think
thoughts could be read
like a sermon we share
or the psalms we hold
in memory.
Painting by Claude Monet, Camille Monet on a garden bench, c. 1873 in Public Domain.
