Hammering the inside of dreams,
Sunday morning bells
ring for a quarter hour.
Leftovers pop inside a microwave.
I bring my bowl to the table.
Solitude lures a companion.
“How is your day going?” he asks.
Orange sheets of light
Sink into the horizon.
Eggplants fill the sky.
Sundays are the special days for me too, its my day, to pass howeer I want…of course with my errands to run, lessons to plan, and housekeeping to do. But I have no appointments, no running, rushing, and no schedules.
Sunday rituals are wonderful. From sleeping late, to leisurely brunch, and time to see the sunset from outside, if I choose, instead of inside the classroom walls, I loved your poem. Thanks.
I love the line about eggplants fill the sky. One one hand I see the metaphor of sunset color but on the other it suggests a surrealistic dreamlike world of sleep. Neat.
I love the line, “Orange sheets of light.” I see a vivid almost tropical sunset.