Beneath grapefruit light and
silk and tulle clouds,
I glide home eager for dinner.
A welcome from my dog
—as if he hasn’t seen me in years—
whets my appetite, settling me in after a day’s travails.
But the meal is a hurried affair
this Tuesday night.
Low on adventure,
high on ease.
My only dessert is a hot shower,
washing away lingering 9-to-5 energies before bed.
I long for fall,
when I can share my weekends with my cookbooks
seduce the oven into an aromatic dance,
its crescendo a warm puff of pastry.
With each summer I cling to these Sunday memories,
until finally the calendar signals my return to page and pantry.