Hungry for Sabbath

I lean against the pillow, soft. Sick another Sunday [past], comforted by ivory sheets and glow of lamp through lemon shade. Curl up with book (nothing like it, to be sick and with book, cup of tea and silent house).

Heim's Living Simply just the thing, this Sabbath, sick and tired. A little Pollyanna-ish at times, but I accept it, lap up the insightful, profound passages, the quotes from other books I must set at bedside for future Sabbaths sick. This speaks, stays with me to next Sabbath, healthy Sabbath...

How do we come to choose what it is that we spend our days doing? Would we choose it again if we could? Did we choose it today, or has it simply carried us along somehow? (Robert Benson)

Now, healthy Sabbath day, this quote follows me around the house, urges my afternoon. What shall I choose? I choose to be with pleasure, simple, fresh. Dust off my flute, play. Set again to the dream of piano. Forge a new dream of cello (Did I know I wanted this? How my fingers slide across the strings... I can do this... did I know?)

Then night falls and a whim appears. Why not? Why not take my children out into the night? Put off bedtime just this once? Hungry for togetherness, a Sabbath of its own?

"Holding"

Put on
your blue boots
better in the snow
let's go watch the
glow of Hungry Moon
who'll feed our hearts
as we hold hands
silent under the
pine, listening
for little night
sounds, "drip, drip
crackle, rustle,
whisper, whisper"
forge a memory
like the one my
mother gave to me
at three in the morning
rousing from comfort
of sheets and dreams
to see the Northern
Lights shimmering
green pink blue
inverted funnel
I fell into, upward
towards this future
I did not know
was mine, under
the pine holding
hands with my two
girls, beneath the
Hungry Moon.


POETRY FRIDAY:
Ann's Pain to Poetry
Unknown Contributor's Grandmother
Jennifer's Poetry of Facebook
Kim's For My Friend
Erica's Work of His Hand
Joelle's Speak Nothing

Hungry Moon photo by L.L. Barkat.

[update: I found this illustration by my Eldest, Sara. Do you see us under the moon? It seems we forged a memory.]