You blind my eyes with yellow,
Like the sun that tans your skin.
You’re a Sunday suburbanite,
Mowing and edging with grassy delight.
You look after the pounds, they
Don’t do it themselves.
You work until you burn, the flames escaping
From the inky dragon on your back,
A back that carries the burden
Of our home in steady strides.
You wake me up like coffee,
Strong and bold. Then leave me
In the cold of your kitchen.
You must return to the sunshine
In your garden. You are the
Sun in Sunday after all.
You roast outside, like the dinner
In our oven.