Sunday

Smelling of morning orange peels and

Lackadaisical nectarines,

you found me quiet, snuggled

beneath antique furrowed linens and

dusty ruffels.

"Don't hide, but seek and ye shall find,"

you say

and set me unwilling and upright,

wiping Sunday sleep dust

from my eyes.

The bedspreads you've knitted

lie bunched and dirty,

tangled around my skinny unshaven

summer legs.

The day is too young for hymns, Grandma.

But none of that. You stand tall,

enveloped in your own fine linens

no thicker

in the peachy breeze

than your lenses.

I breathe shallow when I am near,

you maker of story time,

harbinger of daylight

in the slumbers of my innocence.

I will put on my dress

and wear my sterling cross

I will not let dust gather

at your orthapedic feet

for it, as darling and dainty as you,

will one day be swept 

with an orange broom kept

beside the impatient washing machine

and all the linens will wake.