Dear Sunny Sunday,
You are cold but beautiful
and deliciously sluggish.
I am cheered by your brilliance,
calmed by your slowness,
satisfied by your fullness—
not hurried and harangued,
nor stressed, pressed, and “duressed”
from so many sides—
but freed to breathe…and sigh…and wait,
for nothing in particular.
(What “Super Bowl”?)
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