Well now, Sunday’s rolled in soft as butter,
the kind that melts on hot biscuits—no stutter,
just easy breathing, birds tuning their strings,
dew on the roses, and bees with gold rings.

I shuffle barefoot through grass still asleep,
sun yawning slow, stretching arms wide and deep.
Tomatoes are blushing, shy as can be,
while marigolds grin up laughing at me.

There’s coffee steam curling, warm in my hand,
mixing with mint sprigs I plucked from the land.
A butterfly flutters like gossip in flight,
telling the daisies the secrets of light.

No rush, no rattle, no worldly demands,
just earth and her whispers cradled in hands.
On Sunday the garden’s a hymn without end—
nature my preacher, the robins my friends.

So let the weeds wander, I’ll let the world wait,
peace blooms in soil at the old garden gate.