What Sundays are Made of...

I am fully aware that it is Friday night and not Sunday. I've come to look forward to the days where

there is no where to be and nothing to do. When is the last time you let the day wind around you without putting any expectation or plan into it?

Let tomorrow be that day--even if only for an hour. Step out of your head and lead with your senses. What does the day taste, smell, and feel like?

What Sundays are Made of

Sundays are long cat stretches

and a late morning breakfast of

warm and sweet oatmeal

with butter in the bottom of the bowl

Sundays are toys flung

to every corner of the house

and half painted canvases on easels

with forgotten painting water

knocked over by a space rover gone rouge

Sundays are warm towels just out the dryer

and the smooth slide of the iron

back and forth, back and forth

across the sheets

and clothes laying in drawers like soldiers

Sundays are PJs ‘til noon

cups of hot tea and tendrils of incense

climbing toward the dining room light

and playing board games at the table

Sundays are chilly walks to the bakery

for day old bread and oatmeal cookies

for blue jay sightings and dog petting

and feet dragging in leaf mountains

Sundays are skipping naps to rake leaves

in the mid-afternoon’s sun

and making leaf forts

before the evening frost settles in

Sundays are for too late movies

and fast food dinners

for finishing just one more chapter

in your favorite book

Sundays are ending the evening

with another poem, a cat curled along side,

and that last hot cuppa

with this morning’s tea bag