photo by Margaret Fox—firstname.lastname@example.org
In the Smell of the Breakfast
Scent of cooking seeps into the room,
tickles my conscience.
Little chore will do well
for the retreated soul.
I turn in my bed and drift back to…
a calm unconsciousness.
Strong odor snatches me back.
Sound of scraping, scrap and scrap.
Let him correct it.
Let him correct all the mishaps he conjured,
trash them all, yours and mine,
let them turn into the due drops on the grass,
rise into the morning sunbeam, and
newly wed we will be.
©Byung A. Fallgren