Sunday Morning – a poem by Anton Getzlaf

Sunday Morning

Night’s last winking star is tinkling out
On songs for strings and xylophone.
It dawdles down the scale
And brings back up a purple sky.

A voice that whispered loving words
As I was half-asleep
Still curls around my ears
And tickles in the cold of still-wet hair.

Today was made with bakers’ conscientious work.
With gentle palms He pressed
And spread the highs and lows.

All I see’s a mass of lacy veils
That’s moving to the church,
And sunlight cracking through the frost
And all I hear’s a cello strain,
Now close enough to silence it could wet its toes,
Yet rising. 

Anton Getzlaf is a poet living in Portland, Oregon. He works as a school custodian for a living.