Sunday Morning Poem by David Blake

In the silent streets, the sun dances through the leaves on the ancient magnolia tree. Somewhere in the distance I dream I hear her singing an old blues melody. The heat of the summer, intensified by the genital breeze offers no relief from my misery. Here in the haze under the shadow of that old tree, I long to hold on to something more that my holly memories. The weeds in the sidewalk sway, lonely in a careless kind of way, unaware of the danger, the hand that will soon pluck them away. In that moment I look away and try to remember the candles that once by their mystic light lead me to your love. On those unending summer nights, now so long ago in the sticky silence I never dreamed that someday you would go. Yet in my lament I know the angels have no intent of ever restoring my loves lost soul.