The Poet's Sabbath

On Friday near evening,
my poet’s pen put away,
this ornery voice of unredeemed rote
silenced by the merciless
trajectory of a setting sun;
I have not yet completed,
yet all is complete.

And as the day turns dark
I sing
and think of sadness
as a theological statement.
My joy chastises me, and
I rejoice in the pause and the peace.
God is good.

Now more than a week later
I reenter, pencil in hand
Knowing that my silence
Has been a vacuum
Inevitably filled
By another’s sound
I stab the sunset
Loath to permit
Rest to end my
Creation.