Sunday Wears A Coat of Dusted Dreams

 

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.

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