Meera

16

so sometimes I wake up on perfect summer Sundays
the sky spread apart by an honest sun
and I make myself fried eggs with dewy yolks and too much pepper,
drink honeyed coffee, burning my tongue sweetly as
the futile breezes stroll through the window, shadowed curtain
and I hum quietly, all the time enjoying the precious feeling
of forgetting what I was thinking, remembering what
I was doing