Waiting for the Light by Byron Hoot
It is Sunday and I am not ready my heart
beating in ways this side of shattering
and leaving me fragmented trying
to find and hold together the diastole
and systole rhythm of my life wherein
things come and go in ebb and flow
in the certainty of the constant undulation
of love and life, dream and waking.
Now that each day is freed
from what I was not free
from, I don’t need days
to be a certain way anymore. . .
yesterday might have been the Sabbath
for me and I so completely
a part of it I didn’t notice
and now that it’s Sunday and it
doesn’t feel like a Sabbath I see
I’ve confused realities once more
ignoring what has been with what
is suppose to be. . . .
I’m pretty certain my Sabbath
was yesterday
the sudden fullness of time,
the way moments elongated,
the way eternity wasn’t some place
out there but caught in conversation
and laughter and tears and food and drink
and the silence of memory.
No, my Sabbath
was yesterday, today is just the afterglow.