Writing on Sunday Time

Why is it that time seems to pass slower on Sunday then any other day of the week? I get up at the same time, but the day seems to pass slowly. The day seems to stretch out into the infinite future. They day feels as if it has not beginning and will have no end.

This feeling is an illusion, of course, because the day will end. Today the sun will set behind a cloud cover. It has been cloudy all day. The clouds do not give Sunday the feeling of being eternal. Something else about Sunday seems to make time pass at a snails pace and time seems stretched to its limits as the day wears on.

I have always thought that it odd that Sunday seems endless, while the rest of the week days and Saturday pass quickly. All my life, Sunday has seemed to pass slowly, perhaps its because Sunday is the first day of the week and I am being prepared for the coming days full of excitement and worry. Although today, I am not worried about anything.

It could be my imagination that time passes at a different rate then anyother day of the week. Still Sunday's seem to pass slower then any other twenty-four hour day.

I am writing on Sunday time
and I feel the slowness of the day
the joy of rest at the beginning of the week.

I am writing on Sunday time
attempting to put into words
the feeling of the seconds creeping into minutes
and minutes crawling into hours.

I am writing on Sunday time
and the words come as slow as
molasses in January
when the snow lays deep in the mountains
and everything in nature wants to sleep.