There are Sundays, when late afternoon
I make a review of how the past week’s time
Has disappeared, even today with
The extra hour gifted from daylight saving’s time
And no groceries have been purchased
Except milk, eggs, cinnamon, garlic
Which were needed for dishes that
Were required for respectful admittance
Into a potluck or a school function
I remark to myself in a form of self acceptance
That I am not inspired to cook anything
On this too gorgeous of a day to do much but
Admire the leaves which normal poets
Would observe eloquently in portrayals of death and rebirth
And how their cascading spirals into Mother Earth’s
Waiting palms is proof their existence passing downward
Is not simply a suicidal drop that is forgotten, but
Will be nourishment for her splendor in spring
But I, oddly, only think there is nothing
I want to prepare for my family to eat
Except maybe grilled cheese whose golden crunch
Will comfort me with its simplicity as dipping it into
Possibly tomato soup whose steam will warm my cheeks
In perfect enjoyment that nothing of note was accomplished
With the extra hour that will be owed to spring