It’s Sunday somewhere else,
someplace where
love and good and light,
are real in life,
just as real as toil and strife,
where “effortless effort”
is written in invisible ink
on nonexistent name tags,
where there’s music and prayer and meditation,
a break from madness, a soulful vacation.
I have no name for the effect,
but I do know what I might expect,
if I could but rise to attend,
my body to heal, my heart to mend.
Others would speak, I would listen,
and an unseen current
might course through me,
perhaps a tear might glisten.
Maybe it could be, possibly I’d see
that change is challenging
but hope is tangible,
and grace is possible.
If only.
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