Inviting

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…

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4 thoughts on “Inviting

  1. 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…

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