Sunday

In the morning, she’d awake

To the sounds of a lively kitchen.

And despite the slight push for time,

There were some days when she’d

 Just lie awake and take in all

That her senses could offer her.

She listened to the clangs

Of the mismatched pots and pans

As they shuffled past

Each other on the stove.  

She listened to the sweet hum

Of her mother’s voice

As she flipped a pair

Of pancakes.

And she found comfort

In that muffled commotion

From down the hall.