just one day off
to have fortitude
to lose yourself
and embrace the unfamiliar
arms of a strange town

to speak their food
and taste their language
to see their memories
and pretend you never had one
the sea waves embalming yours

dear prudence, you wrote
as you discover the art in
nothingness and emptiness
you empty yourself of such void
their rain water baptizes you

and their trees walk with you
their clouds accompany you
you are sheltered by their histories
and museums of tomorrows from yesterdays
and suddenly
you are filled
satiated with unproductivity
and you look forward to mondays
which are no longer much of a mundane
for only through them
you can breathe within a saturday
just one day off
to just be again

as slow, yet, fruitful as persimmons
as unsteady, yet, balanced as an empath
a community of hermits
and the solitude of flocking birds
the literature of life
it's art mirrored in humanity
and humanity is the likeness and visage of God
whom in the seventh day
rested and savoured its creations
slowly and adventurously
just one day off
and just be again

to rest is a virtue to the living
and to the dead, it is a privilege
just one day off
to have fortitude
to find yourself
and just be again