Monday, March 5, 2007

keeping the sabbath ... at home


Wow... We are now seriously de-churched! Yesterday was the first Sunday of "no more Portal". To borrow from Emily Dickinson:

Some keep the Sabbath going to church;
I keep it staying at home,
With a bobolink for a chorister,
And an orchard for a dome.


It's interesting that this "bobolink" phase is happening during Lent. Hmmm.... Coincidence?

(sunset picture above was recently taken by #2 offspring)

5 comments:

amg said...

Sunday was beyond "odd" for me.....but the poem and picture (which I love) were greatly appreciated. Thanks to all three of you! :)

Rodger Sellers said...

Is this a "raw" picture? It looks like someone spent a LONG time in photoshop to get something that looks like this!

You guys get this kind of sunset "naturally" then maybe I need to think about relocating!

Happy (belated) Shabot!

RPS

Barb Berger said...

Well, come on out... because the photo was not retouched! (The only thing my son did was to "crop" the canvas to get our basketball hoop out of the frame!) Yeah, it was an amazing sunset--happened a couple of weeks ago.

Serena said...

I agree ... with all of the above ... great picture, great poem, and great idea you moving out this way Rodger! My sabbath was spent unpacking ... so didn't feel like Sunday ... next Sunday I'll experience the weirdness of no Portal.

imsmall said...

WHAT WE CALL IT

Some face their death in wars abroad,
I face mine here at home--
It is imaginary, toward
Which every thought must come.

Yet in another, further sense,
It has been left behind,
As like a screed in somnolence
Closed off behind a blind.

My duty I must here perform:
It would be dereliction
To go into the war-zone´s harm,
Per heaven´s interdiction.

And yet, events of far away
Breed in me endless sorrow,
That I may not, as festive, gay,
Play like there´s no tomorrow.

Tomorrow has been stretched upon
Its frame as any canvas,
But not for painting--as though done,
And we, its merest envoys

Pass through the vacuous gallery
While footsteps clack and echo,
Drawing a meager salary
And calling it art deco.