Sunday

Sunday's magic will soon unfold,
With books, tea, and fireplaces.
The sun glints through my reading hole,
And brightens up hidden spaces.


Oh, boiling my hot tea goes.
Spices and honey fill the room.
As aromic smells guide my nose,
Warm sensations begin to bloom.


Snapping, the heat begins to roar.
Flames lick the log and grow in size.
My toes once cold are cold no more.
Radiant gleams light up my eyes.


Sunday's magic is gone so fast,
But is here in future, in past.

This poem is about: 
Me
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

Comments

Annette M Velasquez

Very well written with nice imagery and smooth rhyme. The narration is precise and straightforward. The last two words throw off the rhythm somewhat... perhaps " as in the past" I see that you were wanting to adhere to 8 syllables, but read it aloud to see what I mean about the ending.

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