This Sunday

This Sunday

This Sunday
Go outside
And smell the air
Scan the horizon
Beyond the rooftops
Where the flames
Of rhododendrons
Are running berserk
Across the clear sky.
This Sunday
Don’t talk to anyone
Just listen
To the chatter
Of the feathered guests
In your garden.
If you see a mouse scurrying by
Don’t scare him with a hello
Only wave at him
As you do at old friends.
This Sunday
Let go of the walls
And the prison chambers
That you call Home
And allow the Sun
To spread his umbrella
Of glimmering rays
Over your cloistered head.
This Sunday
Go away into the woods
Spend an entire morning
Noon, evening, and night too
In the company of creatures
Both great and small
Like you ought to have been doing
All your life long.


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Rham Dhel
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