Sunday Sky

Sunday sky, Monday blues,
Tuesday thunder and Wednesday moon,
Thursday hail, Friday sun and Saturday rain,
and where do I go from here?

Twirling my dreams like a pinwheel on parade,
humming a tune only I can hear, clicking my heels
as sparks sputter and fail, maybe I should get out of here?

Tell me it isn't so, tell me it just isn't true, tell me
I am still not quite thirty, and there is no such thing
as those sneaky grey hairs messing up my blond curls.

Those trees we planted, now they are so sturdy and tall,
and all the neighbour kids are married and have kids of their own,
and the other day somebody called me ma'am, and I wondered,
do I really look that part, maybe the kid was just joking or too polite,
and maybe I should just get out of here.

Maybe if I catch a ride on a moonbeam when the stars are just right,
or grab a hold of that big white cloud, I will wake up on the other side
all spunky, young and bright, and follow that big wave over the horizon
to where my dreams are waiting, suitcase in hand, with you smiling by my side.

Sunday sky, Monday blues,
Tuesday thunder  and Wednesday moon,
Thursday hail, Friday sun and Saturday rain,
and where do I go from here?

Where do I go from here?


Trudi Ralston.
January 17th, 2017.
meant to be sung, to the tune of  a mid 1930's melody.