Sabbath

It started with pancakes.
There was syrup, of course.

Then dancing the rust
off this gangly form,

and alchemical singing with sisters
of soul, turning parts into wholes
we’d forgotten.

Alone in the bookstore
I stuffed pockets with poems --
with those prayers that affirm:
we are NEVER alone.

Coming home to a sky crisp with
smiling moon and a heavenly spread
of God’s favorite bling,
I’m reminded how sparks
like to dance.

I enter my cottage
light in bone and in heart,
with tingling ears and a gleaming eye
and a mouth undecided

on shouting or singing or
whispering psalms,

or silently drinking
the cold night air.