Sunday morning is my Sabbath.
Closed in like chickens in the pen.
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.
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,
A holy day,
laced by grace,
secret seeded revelation.
Like dirt in a garden.