Tin Sunday

a quiet 4pm sunday in spring, the kind i loved and put so much faith in as a younger person. the infrequent cars whoosh by softly in the main fronting street. the refrigerator hums. the tin tone of tentative spring shields the soft longings beneath from the harsh sounds of the impending week. this is what Woolf and so many others have recognized as a moment of being. this is it. incongruously enough.