it's an uncommon ritual
sunday

the farmers wake and instead of starched pressed whites
it's soul worn shoes.
sleep is stubborn at shoeing off

it's amazingly quiet
there's a sense of reverence.
there's a sense of acknowledgment and dependence.
exhausted hands have had no time forget
the hours and hours of labor
this is as close as i come to my food source

it's beautiful
it makes me stop
the sun is just coming up over the hill
old women coo babies back asleep

you can smell bread baking in a hot wood ovens

it makes me nostalgic for home
for wild land and places
where i myself am cooed to sleep by the nights breath
no sounds
no lights
dark

the place where the soul can unravel
and one can commune with the angels