Janet Butler

Sundays are wrapped in quiet for me,
their glaze of silence, their transparencies
of light and shadow suggesting a something sacred
watching with deep kind eyes,
unlike that rush of weekday hours
the minutes laid with a heavy brush
all surface glitter.
When did you slip
from weekday to Sunday,
become an icon, my center of worship?
When did you slip from human to holy,
heart’s focus, your name itself a talisman
provoking pain, daughter of desire?
I pretend a soft indifference, but love
feels your mystic aura, feels itself within the magic circle
of your furthest reaches, me a devotee
with lowered eyes, flowers in hand.


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