Sunday

No one on the block

is mowing their lawn today

as if the sound would shake

a sacred stillness we’ve earned. 

Our grass is overgrown too,

woven with weeds, ground ivy

and daisies running freely.

Because I’m sitting out here

in this frayed wicker chair

I dragged to the center of the yard,

the dog leaps over a dandelion,

her paws curled under

mid-flight. Joy is palpable

when you worship

what you can see.

She moves to lie at my feet.

We both absorb the sun.

Her black fur becomes warm

to the touch, my thighs and forearms

pink. It is opposite of animal,

this pursuit of what to believe in,

this need for one answer.

A friend recently asked,

Don’t you want to know the truth?

I look down at my feet,

bare in the grass,

then up at the oak tree,

reaching for light.  

Big bang or big spirit,

my son’s cheek is holy

against mine,

and there are summer days.

 by Amy Bohlman

Making Peace, Poems and Essays

Making Peace: Glumac, Ann, Klimoski, Victor: 9798267109871: Amazon.com: Books