Sunday Evening in Spring

I wipe down the patio table;
damp cloths leave dirt streaks.
The cool presence of evening rolls in
while the warm dog cuddles against my feet
exhausted from a day of play and activity.
I finally sit to grade papers, endless papers,
full of words, pregnant with potential;
yet the slow exit of the sun taunts me to linger
in her space a bit longer.
So my pen rests on the glass table top
lolling from one side to the other each time I shift.

Ah Sundays, how I relish and dread you.
Your slow hours are delectable
and your brief visits are welcome.
Do come again next week.