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Of all the days of the week I remember Sunday best
That day was somehow different not like all the rest
Couldn’t chop the wood or sew, and all the stores were closed
Nothing moved in town, but the old church bell

With Sunday dinner done, the house would rest awhile
 I’d hang my Sunday dress, and take my thoughts outside In the quiet of that day, my mind would drift away 
Sitting on the back door step, with time to wonder why

How high does the sun hang up there in the sky?
Where did it come from and how did it get its light?
What’s inside the ocean, and what makes shore waves sigh?
Time for the questions of a child

With the reins of the saw horse on the back door step
I saddled up my guesses and my precepts
Took them for a ride, in stillness we made strides
As shadows grew, my world blew open wide

Come evening after supper with the candle low
I’d pull the flannel sheet back from my window
Felt the cool evening chill, the night was just as still 
As daytime after church, we left ten hours ago

Why is there dust on the wings of the butterfly?
Why does one star burn so dim, while another star burns bright?
Where do rainbows come from and what makes wrong and right? 
Time for the questions of a child

Sundays in that town have never left my mind 
Cut through all the places that I’ve left behind 
What six days didn’t give, my quiet Sunday’s did 
Opened up my eyes and keep me mystified

Of all the days of the week I remember Sunday best
That day was somehow different not like all the rest
Didn’t chop the wood or sew, and all the stores were closed Nothing moved in town, but the old church bell

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Submitted by: Virrich on October 26, 2020