poem #46

toast, over browned,
crisping onto the smooth white plate.
fried eggs,
sprinkled with rosemary and salt,
edged crackled with butter,
yolks cooked into suns.
a silver fork,
a mug of black coffee.
small things.
the clink of the fork,
the steam of the coffee,
savored here,
then gone.

_________________________________________________________________________
A mindful Sunday breakfast.

One thought on “poem #46

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