It's Sunday
And it's my fault.
I am mildly ashamed and yet, perhaps as a sop,
Imagine that it causes less harm than my other peculiarities.
It's Sunday.
Across the street,
The red leaves of the Japanese maple
Provide a nudging, hug-filled reproof
As they dance with absent ardor
In passing puffs of wind.
It's like your loving grandmother
Rocking minutely in her chair,
Blue-veined hands at peace,
Remembering with a soft savor
The ball at which there was once a graceful gaiety....
Not on Sunday, of course,
Or any other day.
But now among the leaves and wind,
Softly, softly, rocking, rocking -- beyond all grace...
Is there a time or place that is not dancing with loving grandmothers?
Or peculiarities either?
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