Sunday
My mind is set in one direction
But she goes her own way
She has no time to waste
On the concrete that I paste
You cannot run through a field of daisies
Without disturbing of a few.
Sanctuary is found by bell swingers
With nothing better to do.
A Sunday of hope
At the end of a rope.
The smell of coffee brewing
Listening to the rain’s heartbeat
Hoping for a thunderbolt
That would sweep me off my feet.
Animals have the right idea
Not subject to our ways
The symphony of sound resounds
Like music to my ears.
I listen to the warmth that surrounds me
City people sometimes never see
I see the smallest of creatures
Having fun in their simplicity.
