Perpetual Sunday

Perpetual Sunday will someday
fade to the next.
Someday, one day,
into a dream full of rest.
We will no longer lie in bed,
the fervor of life well-fed.
Perpetual Sunday will someday 
be Monday or Tuesday,
where recess and state fairs
and concerts are okay;
we'll laugh at the thought of
masks at the store, or
gloves by the door, or
how many feet- should I separate more?
You will no longer drive with
no place in mind,
listening to music to
kill the time, pretend you're fine;
and that a spring sky with
new leaves scattered through
and chalky clouds trailing
like careless morning dew
don't make you mourn life as
that which slips away,
something to grasp
on this perpetual day.
I promise to myself,
you promise to the world,
that spring will soon release,
a stubborn bud unfurls.
Nothing final, nothing grave,
the days will pass again;
fall away, careless life
we want so badly again.
You want so badly again.
I want so badly again.