The clouds have faded,
Softly, gently, nudged out of the way
By a pale winter sun.
The scent of freshly baked bread,
Straight from the oven,
Floats by on the breeze.
I think of butter, melting, hotly,
Into a still-steaming slice of bread,
And the crunch of that first bite
Of the crisp outer crust.
Sigh….
Oh yes… I will linger on the porch for a while…
Finding Frohsinn - Living Now 
When I first read your lovely poem I thought it said “holy” instead of “hotly”. Thinking now of holy bread, holy butter, holy flowers on the porch…
Lol! I can understand that completely, Kathy – I also think there is something holy about a dollop of butter melting into freshly baked bread, straight out of the oven. 🙂
There is! I would like that bit of holiness right now. 🙂
Oh, how I wish I could send it to you.