Sunday Awoke

The days of the week march by in capitals. As though each is its own being, named, dropping in for a visit once in seven.

Each day has a favourite colour of course, and its own friendship with the moon.

At times, when restlessness or need keeps us up to the wee hours, we see one day out the door with a wave only to find another standing there. It is tempting, for a moment, to shut off the porch light and leave it in the night. Longing for just a breath between these unrelenting visitors.

But then, the day comes gently, finger to their lips. No need to greet them just yet. There is time enough in the morning.

Sunday awoke with a great stretch and a dark cup of coffee. We sat together quietly, books in our laps and mugs to our lips. I could hear music in my mind, golden and soft. The sun rising into a chill breeze off the water and here is the breath I wished for. The crossing place, arriving at Today.

Coffee tastes differently when you make it slowly.

There are sighs that end in smiles and misty eyes, a deep, shivering gulp of all good things. Content.

There are days that never speak. The comfort of very old friends when a visit is simply life and I can read in peace.