c. K. Powers

#16 PAD/Writer’s Digest Challenge

Prompt: Write a (blank) of (blank) poem

The Rite of Sunday

A virgin season is born,
on this hallowed hillside,
swaddled in red buds
and forsythia –
bee-chant and
robin-song.

This cemetery
is where I come to pray
to gather with The Creator,
to nod in silence and say –
“Peace Be with You”
to the universe.

I repent before the mountain,
seeking forgiveness
among heathered treetops
and sinless birds,
the warmth of a mother’s breath
on my face,
and reverence – oh, reverence!
Sunday and spring have arrived.