Elevation
Sunday morning is predictably, exultantly, ineluctably
The epitome of my week's spirituality,
That summit from which I gaze out, over my immediate past,
And savor the undertakings of the last six days,
Assess the possibilities ahead of me,
That I won't career down dread's dead end,
Rather set off on adventures through new wildernesses,
With reality, creativity, and me riding side by side,
Bareback, atop pure-white unicorns,
In quest of kingdoms not yet laid in place, stone by stone —
Atlantises, Xanadus, Shangri-las, Camelots,
Sanctuaries of sheer imaginative enlightenment and delight,
Where even the worst of intentions
Turn into birds-of-paradise overflowing vases of human kindness
And village idiots teach wise men the meaning of love.
I crave each Sunday a.m. as though it were breath,
Revel in the visions it circulates through my inspirations,
Rely on its elevation, to let me locate my soul below.
11/01/09 - (1)
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