Standing in that cold kitchen
early morning Sunday, rubbing
sleep from youthful eyes.
Garlic frying in olive oil anoints
me in its old familiar way,
and papa stirs the big battered pot.
With a look of love in blue Sicilian eyes,
he greets me with a smile, the glass
of sweet vermouth appearing like
a practiced magic act.
Now I watch my youth flash by, its
purple vintage days scattered like
kaleidoscopic leaves in autumn.
Through the haze I see them marching,
heading toward the big parade.
Envoi
Crash the cymbals, beat the drums,
Cry for all your loved ones gone.
Stand alone in that cold kitchen
early Sunday morn; rub the sleep
from your sad eyes.
Count your loved ones, one by one,
watch them trek the great unknown.
Wish them well in long time seeking
Till the day they call you home on
Early morning Sunday.
Alicia Patti
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/early-morning-sunday/
