Lazy Sunday

LAZY SUNDAY

Sit still and listen,
listen to the breezes
making their tireless journeys through the trees, tickling their leaves and playing
their endless song.

Distant dogs
bark at passing trucks, kicking up gravel as their tires
spin past in a muddy blur.

Slips of conversation
are passed like notes in class
surreptitiously
not meant to be heard by unknown ears.

The creaking of exhausted hinges on a door that has
so much experience
it can no longer fit into the jamb that once so easily contained it,
that door is an old man
stubbornly refusing to fit in
and telling stories of old times in rusty whispers
that come and go with warm, decomposing breaths of air.

Death floats by on the wind
as the leaves force out their last bit of brilliance under a magnificent ombre sky,
almost in competition.

The grass is too long in the tooth
and a million crazy mouths try to bite you as you walk past
on your way to pin yesterday's damp clothes on the line, having been
washed of their secrets.
They'll soak up the yellow air that
hugs and hugs and hugs them,
making them dance with the joy of
another day.