Sunday Morning
I always remember Sunday Morning as a
Magical time
Between Paradise and a Dream.
Where Worry and Fear Dare Not Intrude…or
Be Forever Lost In Time…
Ground Hog Day comes, and I still call my Gramma
On her birthday.
It's always long distance, but the charges are reversed
In Love and Remembrance.
On Sunday Morning sometimes,
I feel Gramma and my Nonnie hugging my heart
Filling me with forgiveness and peace.
They tell me in soundless whispers, "Life is too short to wallow in pain.
"Breath peace and join Eternity in this moment."
…never to return to the
The Valleys of Despair and
The pits of Punishment.
Things happen on
Sunday Morning in that peaceful place where I'm - listening.
Listening to sounds as they were intended to be heard.
Miracles happen here
In the sound of snowflakes landing softly on deepening snow,
The darting of a cardinal to his mate,
Distant choirs chiming in the breezes,
Mourning doves sharing love songs,
Passing them on house to house .
Sunday Morning
God only whispers from behind the veil.
Sunday Morning is sacred time.
Sunday Morning, a
Time and a place
Without Loneliness.
Sunday Morning, a
Stroll through the chestnut trees,
Brown sugar and maple syrup
Whiffs of Sun-Baked Pancakes.
Sunday Morning in Spring,
In all seasons
A Blessed Chance for Romance.
Sunday Mornings'
Long intimate Embrace.
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