Sunday remains a day of hope and dread
Anticipating Monday's stressful dawn
Still thinking all's well as we go to bed
Uncertain what we base our feelings on.
We sleep and dream out of a known unknown
Clinging to notions of our hoped-for schemes,
Wild flowers in the night like mushrooms grown
Out of the shadows of remembered dreams.
When we wake what will be will be our week,
Those flowers giving sense to what we seek,
Each hour a step, the journey of our lives
Comes at us, less a going than arrives.
By Tuesday we become inured to guilt
As by the hour those flowers fade and wilt.
We, blameless in our failures, still believe
Come Friday we can find a fertile seed
That sprouts eternal in each night’s reprieve
And gives us back the hope we sorely need.
Saturday only the day wholly ours
We find the time to spend and tend those flowers. |
| Arbeit Macht Frei? |
10/12/17
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