“Loll” is a Sunday word – rumpled and sleepy and not feeling too bad about it. Loll welcomes you with open arms, and never mind how long things take. We’ve got all day. Loll is a word you can present like a doctor’s note to whatever grown-up is impatiently tapping their foot at you. “What are you doing?” “Oh, just lolling around.” Ain’t nobody’s business if I do.
Eventually, Sunday starts its unhurried, cinnamon roll toward Doing Something. You do need coffee, after all – and cleaner teeth. The second-sweetest way to get on with Sunday’s business is to go the farmer’s market and buy some flowers. At the farmer’s market, you gladly exchange mere money for all the sunrises that can be wrapped in a brown paper bouquet. You freely own up to your chronic indolence, Unworthy Loller that you are. You could never get up so early, do so much tilling and cutting and bundling. But Sunday is a forgiving day and the farmer hands over the flowers with her blessing – every petal a work of some Art beyond practice, an alchemy of earth and sky. Enticements not meant for the likes of you, human, but for the bumbling bees, singing their drunk-honey song as they stagger from one seduction to the next, working, working for love – even on Sunday.