It’s not about Sunday
or any day, really,
it seems to me, one

spectacularly unqualified
to postulate on such
divine matters.

Nowadays I find the sacred
in the everydayness
of every day,

in simple acts of
contemplation as we
move through our days,

looking at the world
with wisdom and
wonder,

as in the archaic sacre,
to consecrate, to make
something an object

of honor. Like the Sunday
I noticed the miniature
crimson daisies

beaming under spring
sun at the old cat, who,
nearing her end,

sat quietly, gazing
into them, as if they
had much to say to her,

and her to them,
which, of course,
they did.

Even now that
she’s gone,
they still do.