A Sunday Psalm

The rain touched down

like slipper tips.

Drops so small

they kissed the patio

with barely a patter.

What peace settled

as if holding a

sleeping newborn.

And the maple leaves

were muted timpani’s

catching the infant pearls.

Pearls which pooled

and grew to yawn.

The sun weaved through

and glistened me awake.

I knelt and set my palm

on the wet cement

and gave thanks

for the cradle of

this day.