Quiet Sunday

The old dog sleeps on the porch.
The farm dreams a summer Sunday morning
spreading the benediction of shade
for dozing hens and peaceful cows—
only pigs root as if it were Wednesday.
My serenity rises from pious knees
to bagged feet on the graveled path of chores
while my hushed vision rocks the bees
to sleep in tulip bells, ties a spider’s web
across the furrows.