sunday morning

the butter
melts slowly in the hot skillet.
we crack an egg,
then another.
we let
the steam rise
as our mouths water.
the toast arrives
brown
and ready for jam,
for butter.
we turn the eggs over.
salt, then pepper.
we let it dance
against the gleam
of white, of yellow
yolk.
we sit
and pray.
we look at one another
and agree
on the unsaid promises
we aim to keep, then eat.