Home on a Saturday Morning
Who can remember those days, points in time, life caught on wax?
A smell of being whole, and sun-rays through the eyelashes, glitter on the heart.
I must never forget the motion cotton balls made in my daydreams.
Pancakes, Eggs, Bacon, sizzle and pop.
In the other room, grand dad's Big Ben opens dialog, tick, tick, tick, Bong....
One O'clock, Mom lets the radio hiss, a man's friendly voice, and its Paul Harvey.
Resting my elbows on the table, drinking in the day, when string beans appear.
Without a word, re-flexing hand and peering knife, the job begins.
Viewing the world around, foregoing time's passing, my back wriggles up a chill.
Having done this a thousand time, a warm shall falls heavy across my shoulders, Thanks.
Before me, upon the fire place's mantel, I see photos my family.
Returning to my body, sensing the Age in my bones, I recall a long life lived.
Would I give any of it back; for more time? Never, but on a lighter note, I am still here, Right?
Saturday mornings, always re