On a Sunday morning mission to forage for breakfast
The flakes began to fall
Unprepared we dash home, dampened with Winter confetti
Thawing out, mug in hand, I stand the warm side of the glass
Gazing out at the white flurry, softly blowing over grey rooftops.
Pancake mixture stirred with glee and elbow grease
Flipped 'til gently blistered brown
And ready for strawberry sweetness and sharp lemon
You said I make your space feel like a home
I like that place on your chest
Like a dormouse likes its nest.