Sunday

A yolk surrounded

By white hung

Above flanked by

Strips of clouds

Shards of sunlight

Like shredded paper

Grew long on

The shadowed street

Glints of sun

Danced on bumpers

Just like candlelight

Green and browned

Lawns appeared like

Sprawling checker boards

Birdsong returned calls

Outside my window

Like far-off radios

At long last

The sun returned

Here to Charlotte

Bringing with it

This Sunday morning

SipSipSip

The sky started

As gray as

The rinse bowl

For an artists

Brushes absent of

Color containing many

A parasoles opened

Casting opaque shadows

Everything is muted

As though time

Has turned down

Its own volume

Sleepiness persists here

Daybreak takes effort

Unlike Christmas morn

Even birdsongs lay

Absent like a

Cut telephone line

All I hear

Is my own

Sip sip sip

And grass growing