a thunderstorm on a Sunday morning in summer.
Strong espresso in bed,
the sound of rain on the attic roof.
The marriage between nature and home,
the predictable way he tells me
I've left the patio cushions out
let the hot air in, because I wanted to hear the rain.
The smell of potatoes frying on the stove.
We don't have to say,
the things we don't want to say.
Because the honesty of a Sunday morning, is enough.
