Ode to Sunday Morning

A mantra.

The paint melts off the walls,

And I see the cockatoo

Flying around the room.

It's only there in my imagination,

But I'm free to let it run wild.

Let's hope it doesn't bite me.

Sacred traditions,

Baked in love

By the heat of the summer sun

Shining in through the open window.

Painting, daydreaming, giggling;

Belly laughter that hurts so good.

Our insignificance is significant

If we deem it so,

And we do,

And the laughs turn into cries,

And the music tastes delicious.

Sweet, citrus, candied,

Like the sugar melted on our tongues,

Carrying us away this Sunday morning.

Paradise is what you make of it,

And this dusty loft in Brooklyn does the trick.

The welcoming sounds of ambulances

And street fights

Remind us we are not alone,

But one with all and everything.

I've lived a thousand lifetimes

And I'll live a thousand more,

Blessed by the water that bathes me,

Saved by the glory of neverending memories.