(C) R.L.K.
(For Gloria)
Here it is, another Sunday. The morning is almost gone,
A morning that has done little more than make rain puddles
On the sidewalk, and here we are, sitting on the front porch
Of an old house in an old neighborhood. Summer, too,
Is almost gone, and some of the trees have started
Tossing their leaves into the wind. Going, gone…
So much is already gone, yet here we are,
Waiting for a rift in the clouds to let sunlight
Shine on the damp grass, waiting for the rare leaf
That a smiling child will catch in flight.
