Sunday morning is my Sabbath.
Kept.
Maintained.
Closed in like chickens in the pen.
Close together.
Loud calling.
Reminding.
Lowing like goats on curled leaders winding wrapped around trees.

Sunday morning is my sabbath.
And when I wake, it is to thoughts of breaking.
Destroying.
Tilling today so that it is not the same as others.

By the time I am through the earth is all the way turned over.
From flexing dented shovels.
Cranking loud stinky machines to oppressive-grind hard dry clay
and moist black dirt into dust risen in plumes fast-ascended.

After all, it is sunday.
And morning, still.
My own little
sabbath to offend,
even hurt.
A holy day,
laced by grace,
buried, hidden,
secret seeded revelation.

Broken.
Disrespected.
Thoroughly.
Like dirt.
Like dirt in a garden.