Thoughts for a Sunday Morning

Thoughts for a Sunday morning.

When it comes to matters ineffable, I believe, with the persona in Frost’s West Running Brook, that

“There is something sending up the sun.”

I take my cue from Joseph Campbell that,

“God is a metaphor for that which transcends all levels of intellectual thought. It’s as simple as that.”

I keep holy the Lord’s day with Emily Dickinson,

Some keep the Sabbath going to Church –
I keep it, staying at Home –
With a Bobolink for a Chorister –
And an Orchard, for a Dome –

Some keep the Sabbath in Surplice –
I just wear my Wings –
And instead of tolling the Bell, for Church,
Our little Sexton – sings.

God preaches, a noted Clergyman –
And the sermon is never long,
So instead of getting to Heaven, at last –
I’m going, all along.

I sometimes have a feeling strongly evoked by James Wright’s, persona in Lying in a Hammock at William Duffy’s Farm in Pine Island, Minnesota.

Over my head, I see the bronze butterfly,
Asleep on the black trunk,
Blowing like a leaf in green shadow.
Down the ravine behind the empty house,
The cowbells follow one another
Into the distances of the afternoon.
To my right,
In a field of sunlight between two pines,
The droppings of last year’s horses
Blaze up into golden stones.
I lean back, as the evening darkens and comes on.
A chicken hawk floats over, looking for home.
I have wasted my life.