Sunday Poem

Written Sunday, November 10

The day is like the convergence of many perfections:
Golden leaves, blue sky, warm sun, cool wind.
My children's joy like a signpost, reminding me what it means:
There is a greater Father, author of gratuitous delights.

The money I wish I had could not buy these leaves, or sky, or laughter;
Not, at least, the experience of them that is this day's gift.
This Sabbath rest holds me still enough for vision.
He has taken the blinders of tomorrow's worry
From the eyes of today's delight.