Sunday Evening

Sunlight lingers in the western sky.
We sit in the darkening room,
Both curled up on the couch.
The ticking clock
And the rustle of a turning page
The only sounds.

The weekend is over
The mowing and weeding done.
Monday’s e-mail and phone calls
Can wait for morning.

For now, we escape
To other lands,
Other planets,
Other lives,
Where passion and drama
Are neatly wrapped up in 327 pages
Of plot lines converging
On hope.

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