If stones could shout

I never counted Sundays

in the springs of all my past.

I begged the very stones

to shout, that I might rejoice,

And kept my gaze upon

the pavement under my feet

where I saw the gum

and garbage, the despair

of our distracted age

and lay my body down

upon the ground so that

all I saw would be monumental.

And that would be my wry

comment on the world.

But the stones refused

to speak, and so I listened

to the babble of the street,

the wind in the oaks;

melodies, melancholy

or sweet. 

Sundays were the days

when Friday's promises

had all drained away

and only television,

wine, and meat remained

to close another week.

This Sunday will be different,

I'll venture to the island's edge

and seek a frond to hold

and walk along the shore path

listening to the sea

splashing on the stones.

And I will celebrate,

not cerebrate, the wind

will be like the breath of God,

the sun a blessing hand.

This week I will participate

and let grace replace

the knowledge I thought

I had. May it be so.