A Sunday No One Owns

After last night’s rain,
the crows arrived early,
black commas moving in the treetops,
certain the world provides.

I know that kind of faith.

I know a school bus can be a home
when a man stops explaining.

I know a stove can hold back Alaska
one dry piece of wood at a time.

I know a paid bill is a quiet animal.
It lies down, and doesn’t pace the room at night.

I know a mother’s voice
can cross three thousand miles
and still enter
like a hand on the shoulder.

I know an old friend can call
and an hour can pass
without either voice trying
to become important.

For years, Sunday meant relief.
One more day
before the machinery started again.

Now Sunday is coffee,
rain drying on the windows,
and me forgetting that
Monday is supposed to threaten.

A tree has many roots.

So, too, does a life
that means to grow.

Creeks don’t apologize to the ocean
for being creeks.

They keep moving
until the earth
has to make room.

This is what it looks like
from here:

firewood stacked,
bills paid,
coffee hot,

and a Sunday
no one owns
but me.