Feast of Sunday Delight

In the quiet hush of Sunday morn,
Where sunbeams kiss the dewy lawn,
A tantalizing fragrance fills the air,
Of Sunday delicacies beyond compare.

Awake, the kitchen stirs to life,
With symphonies of fork and knife,
Where pots and pans in rhythmic beat, Compose a feast both rich and sweet.

First, the aroma of freshly brewed brew, Coffee's allure, both strong and true,
Its dark embrace, a morning dance,
Awakening senses in a trance.

Beside it, baskets of bread so warm,
With golden crusts that gleam like dawn, Butter soft as clouds, melting slow,
On every slice, a taste to know.

Eggs, in myriad forms, they come,
Scrambled, poached, or fried to some,
Their yolks like suns in morning skies,
Bursting forth in golden guise.

Bacon sizzles, a crispy song,
Its savory notes draw us along,
To plates where waffles wait to share,
Their pockets of sweetness, a breakfast affair.

And pancakes, stacked in fluffy tiers,
Drizzled with syrup that endears,
Each bite a journey, each taste divine,
As Sunday's flavors intertwine.

But midday beckons, and the table groans, With roasts and stews, hearty tones,
Where meats are tender, vegetables bright,
In gravies thick, a culinary delight.

Roasted potatoes, crisp and brown,
With herbs that echo autumn's gown, Alongside greens, fresh and crisp,
Their crunch a contrast to tender lips.

And desserts! Oh, the treats that wait, Pastries flaky, pies on a plate,
With fruits in swirls of sugared bliss,
Each bite a taste of Sunday's kiss.

As evening falls, a final course,
Cheeses arrayed with gentle force,
Their flavors aged, their stories told,
In every bite, a tale unfolds.

And through it all, the laughter rings,
As family gathers, spirits sing,
For Sunday's delicacies, not mere repast,
But memories made, traditions cast.

So linger long, with hearts replete,
In Sunday's feast, in Sunday's treat,
For in these moments, we find our way,
To cherish Sundays, come what may.