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Poem — Those Winter Sundays
Those winter Sundays
warm blankets atop my head
pressing into a crumpled, graying pillow
keeping my body locked and curled
to weather the breezes leaking from the window
rattling, banging, rocking its sides
assuring the presence of a windy day
rising to mother’s repetitive shouts to awaken
before breakfast lays cold and soggy,
but breakfast required no reminder
remembering well the warm kitchen
the whispering steam from fresh brewed tea
its aroma drifting lazily up the stairs
with the sweet smell of warm, buttery toast
piled high like a stack of pancakes
soft sunny eggs, sometimes hard eggs, or eggs
beaten to perfection and flipped
laying round like a pie, top and bottom
Did I ever thank her? My thoughts
think not at first, then not enough
each morning the same, none different
basking in her constancy, eating heartily
only now, the mornings are bare, empty of love
reminding me of the coldness of the floors
in winter upon rising
cold floors, bare feet, odorless, and empty.
