Run-on Saturday Morning

When the sun peeks over
the shadowed hilly landscape
and just barely begins to glow
on the walls of your pastel-painted
bedroom and throws lightened
shadows on your softly carpeted
floor and you wake to the smell of
cinnamon and peanut butter
freshly baked from the oven and
retrieved by comfortable, worn
oven mitts in dull silver muffin tins
warm to the touch- so warm that
they could burn your entire hand in
an instant and make it become all
read and flaming and blistering,
so that the only remedy is cold, icy
water and your mother's consoling
hugs and kisses applied with care
as well as bandages to wrap your
hand in so that it looks something like
a mitten that you wore just last winter
during the great snowstorm that
canceled school, when you built that
great snowman and his family and
pet dog named Jordan, and all the
neighborhood kids were so jealous
of your incredible artistic skill-
When you sit down with your sleepy
eyes at the wood table that has
withstood babyhood and major temper
tantrums and you see that your morning
meal has been placed before you and
prepared in just the way you know
your mom knows you like it and you
can almost taste the almond extract
and sweet cinnamon sugar-dusted dessert
that others would call breakfast on
a rushed day, and you can feel the comfortable
heat radiating from the perfectly-sized
pastry in waves of silver steam,
don't forget to thank the one who made it.