Only on Sundays

Hidden beneath a pile of laundry, a soiled secret

sunk under a sink full of dirty dishes, a sodden regret

pinned between the grocery lists, some guilt

swept away by the mop and the broom, a bucketful of unfulfilled wishes

sucked in by a vacuum cleaner, all enthusiasm

held down by a pile of files, weighty questions

drowned by different voices, creating cacophony

skulking behind the laptop like a scolded child

sulking underneath the smartphone, a lone desire

lost in the amazon forest of eking a living

life is bruised, battered and bypassed on weekdays;

days that are chockablock with the art of surviving

and then…

a night of languid rediscovery

unrestrained giggles, tousled heads,

teenage tangle of lanky limbs on my bed

brighten my late, lazy morning

as I follow a flitting butterfly,

trace the delicate veins of fallen leaves

inhale deeply the fresh smell of grass

and listen to an old forgotten melody

I feel life unhurriedly seeping back into me

I finally come alive on Sundays

to tackle the days that follow.