Ritual Of Cleansing - Poem by Max Reif
It's easy on a Sunday morning,
setting out on the freeway to do the shopping
while the air is still cool and the sky a shockingly
harmonious blue and the hammer
of Monday Tuesday Wednesday Thursday Friday
is resting from the Hand that wields it,
to talk to God and say 'Now is all,
this moment is all, there is, '
and with that one brief sentence
dissolve in a vast Ocean
a whole lifetime of disappointments
and partly-realized efforts, and feel all of life
come up refreshed and clean,
and there's every reason to believe
in an infinite possibility—after all, the sun
is still young and climbing, why not us?
On the way home a few hours later
a lot more two-armed, two-legged
versions of the human condition
are in evidence everywhere and I'm fatigued.
Doing anything has become a bit of a struggle
and I just want to get home.
I try the cleansing a second time.
The results are not as dramatic,
but still, if it worked last time,
the world is only a couple hours old now,
and next Sunday I'll start out early again.
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