On Sunday, I sing in a church choir, not believing
in God, but holding a space for something—
some might call it spirit, an opening,
a candle illuminating a cave.
On Sunday, I climb the hill behind our house,
as the long winter thaws, and my dogs dig in wet loam.
I wait for worries to relax their hold, for my mind
to become one with the clouds’ calm drifting,
the trilling of a stream rushing somewhere unseen.
We need, I think, to let ourselves soften around hurt,
before we melt, like spring snow, into fields—
so, I let Dad in, decades past his death,
find a few good memories, like stones just soft enough
for polishing—him filling the green glass vaporizer nightly,
so I wouldn’t get sick, in the hot, dry air of my childhood winters.
Dad donning an apron to cook for his skinny teen.
I breathe in the care and nourishment he offered then,
and I receive today, on an ordinary Sunday.
First Published in Valparaiso Poetry Review
