Sometimes
on a Tuesday or a Wednesday,
I find myself daydreaming
about the quiet of Sunday morning.

An ache fills my chest
as I yearn
for the early morning hours
that seem to unfold more slowly
than hectic weekday mornings.

On Sunday,
rising in the predawn hour,
my dogs and I head out,
with only thoughts
for additional company.

Our walk is slow
as the dogs
sniff and explore grass
that was home to foxes and raccoons
a few short hours earlier.

Back home,
I start coffee and oatmeal,
the dogs wrestle on the rug.

For the next few hours,
until my husband arises late morning,
I have the luxury of puttering…
writing, reading, organizing.

No large task is accomplished,
no monumental decision made.

Rather,
Sunday morning stretches languidly,
like the curl of a gentle wave
on a quiet stretch of beach.