Sunday wears a coat of dusted dreams
He creeps up like October wind,
dirt and harvest in his palms,
sprinkled lightly over Communion wafers.
Come evening, he sleeps at inns,
several inns, for he is many colors,
and rain creeps in through cracks like snow
melting seeps into the ground.
A pitter-patter of his toe
as he holds his vigil by firelight
cheese and bread in hand
and a smile of things forgotten.