I hope Sunday's slow and long,
steeped like a pot of mint tea.
Soft sun and deep thinking.
Saturday was a crowded calendar page,
a mound of chores.
Could Monday be a porch?
Facing the week.
Wednesday a meadow?
Thursday, let's leave
small baskets at everyone's door.
Flowers, notes, stones.
No one does that anymore.
Could a week be strung on a silver chain?
A boat?
A tree?
Tuesday as a tree?
Weekend Metaphors
By Violetta
By Violetta
Friday is a day before the weekend; it’s a bear sleeping in it’s cave, which is buried under snow.
Saturdays in quarantine, I get up and play with my sister. I’m a fox, jumping around.
Sunday in June is a cinnamon roll baking in the oven, served at noon.
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