mackwrites

'How was Sunday?' she asked, But how could I answer? I couldn't tell her of liberation, And drinking cold cider in the bell-tower While Spring chimed through the city. I couldn't describe the sudden gentle return of gravity And the solid feel of stone beneath my shoes, As I walked past the cathedral. There were no words For how everything seemed contingent and beautiful And so so im-mediate. The day wanted only one thing to make it perfect.