Poetry

Sunday Breakfast

Sweet, Powerful cinnamon

leaks in the air.

Slow, smooth, quiet music

from a foreign tongue

accompanied by incoherent

warm, welcoming, humming

emanating from my mother

as she sways back and forth

cooking.

Popping, sizzling, yellow eggs

sitting in a pan 

the kettle starts to yell

at someone, anyone

to turn off the heat

my mom does so instantly

she turns off all the heat

she looks at me,

with laughter dancing in her eyes,

smiling brightly.

She comes to me

arms reaching out

her rough yet smooth hands

grab me

and we begin to dance 

to the slow smooth music 

from a foreign tongue.