Our ends of the world diverge on Sundays,
whose mornings I spend in blissful sleep
while you, dutiful, arrow-straight, make haste
to wash and clothe and drive. All to keep
the Sabbath. In the winding arch and curve
of your days, this one claims itself parahelion:
the closest to origins; the day to observe,
revere, reflect; resolution.II. Parabola
Two lines, if not drawn in perfect parallel,
deal with the pains of intersection at some point.
They meet, then disengage, and tell
their congruence through changes made past their joint.
At aphelion, vertical velocity equals nil,
the sum force of our opposing lines:
my searching, your force of will,
a stalemate meeting of steadfast minds.
My ever-changing search will lead me high
and low without regularity or conclusion,
especially on Sunday mornings when—alone—I try
to find my own linear resolution.
We course on different paths, whose depths
and heights match most days—save one
in which we both attempt to accept
the existence of other parabolas besides our own.
A first draft. Not really special, and not really any good, but I thought I'd toss it up here anyhow. (If I only posted what was good, domesticat would see perhaps ten posts a year.)
Fourth stanza's good; I'll probably keep it. Don't really know about the rest. I like the concept of parabolas, despite the fact that I had to check wording with Heather to make sure I didn't say anything stupid the physicsgeeks could call me on, but I don't think I approached it correctly here in this draft.
Nevertheless, I'll leave this here as an example of words thrown together and as a snapshot of my mind from this morning. Take it and go on with whatever you were doing.