Sunday Drive

the sycamore's quiet embrace surprises 

maybe nothing more but the deep shade shadows

limbs over limbs little street close below 

this is nowhere in particular everywhere

a piece of someone's dream many dreams

insects misting to bits of cloud

soft slap of rhythmic flags

a mostly whole sky

from somewhere the solemn march of men

in pressed white shirts proceeds

they sing in Italian sing of weddings love death

point the way to a sun clawing

at a cold and waiting heaven

JPPestana

Sunday Drive

6.15.2021