Sunday Mornings

Jay Chambers

Air so cold that it cuts my lungs, 
As I walk across the lichen and moss-covered yard, 
Passing chickens that are gathered around old bread. 
I strike my boots on splintered porch 
And knock in rhythm on the door. 

The door opens a void of dark 
And sunlight flies in 
Only to be absorbed by her face 
Lips curling into a smile 
When she sees me. 

The light of her smile 
Reflects back blindingly 
Filling me with gladness 
As I see her in Sunday best 
Gray dress becoming wedding gown 
In my eyes. 

My bones something old 
My joy something new 
Her scarf something blue. 

Sunday mornings bring 
Wedding bliss.