Sunday afternoon.

Sunday afternoon
Is filled with memories.
The carpets are freshly vacuumed,
The sun is soft,
The white lily in the sunset blue orange pot
Offers its wide green leaves
To cover my young vulnerable dreams.

Sunday afternoon is quiet,
Reflecting on the past,
Keeping the potentiality of the future.
Its silence cuts my heart as if it is butter,
Melting in the rays of lives
that didn’t happen,
Of lives,
that are about to come.

Sunday afternoon is getting ready,
Stirring the mushroom soup,
Dusting the table,
Mopping the floor,
Pouring lavender salt in the tub,
Pouring a new melody in the heart.

Sunday afternoon is resting,
Waiting for the dawn.