Understanding the Narra (Sunday Walks)

block e wacky

My feet crush the dry little stars,
finding satisfaction in the melancholic
melody of their crunch & crackle.

Time fades with their scent’s threads:
saintly subtle, sweet — a reminder that Sunday
is nothing but brittle, faded recollections

     of the breath of leaves, rivulets of wind,
     a waiting woman, sleeping cats,
prayers in pauses, a song in the distance.

     Three men laugh as they mend
     a poor, broken pipe — the punchline
was swallowed by the quietness. 

The world disappears in the afternoon:
I find solace in stillness
of stones. A silent smile.



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