Sunday Morning

I am sinking into my soft spotted chair on Sunday.
I wonder if Harpo the canary hears
the birdsong bursting from the fir out front.
I hear shrill whistles banter back and forth.
Harpo’s head tilts this way and that. He sings.
I see Hopper and Piggy lying side-by-side,
tail to snout siestas.
I want warm banana bread with butter,
and strong coffee rich with cream.
I am Scandinavian.

I pretend to be a Finnish princess.
I feel beautiful and strong.
I touch the ribbon
that ties off my long thick braid and
I worry that my father, the king,
will not permit his daughter to chop wood.
I cry under the weight of his words.
I am as capable as any boy is,
and I have more strength than many.

I understand that stories are born
in moments and events remembered, yet
I will always say
some stories write themselves.
At night I dream of
thousands of soldiers
controlling us all.
I try to wrap my mind
around a world beyond my living room,
safe here in the United States.
I hope life always brings banana bread,
and strong coffee rich with cream.
I am one of many humans living stories on the Earth,
in my spotted chair on Sunday, the canary on its perch.


~~~~~~~
*Authors Note* The "I am" poem I posted prior to this, was written following specific parameters. For this piece, the first two words of each line had to be those first two words, but there were no other specifications. After I wrote it I moved the line breaks to suit myself...so some of the first two words are "embedded."