The morning butter
melts
The toast of life
still warm
Moments become liquid
slip from the sharp surface
As we exit youth
and the flour goes stale
We look to bake our
own yeast
Proud to exhibit
racks of toast in silver holders
Knowing they to will fall stale
and seek the recipe to reproduce
Moments remain solid
stranded upon the dry surface
I remember still
the fragrance of breakfast
Not just a memory
a treasure I hold deep inside
Moments again become liquid
slipping once again from the sharp surface
Email this story 
Print Story 
Add to reading list
