by Melissa Smith
Breakfast, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My pancakes can reach, when feeling out of Weetabix
For the ends of the milk and ideal expiration date.
I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet feed, by sun and candle-light (read: breakfast for dinner).
I love thee freely, as men strive for the microwave’s light;
I love thee purely, as they turn from the Poptart craze.
I love thee with a passion-fruit put to use
In my old yoghurt parfaits, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost egg and soldiers, --- I love thee with the coffee breath,
Toast piles, marmite smears, of all my life! --- and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death (p.s. I hope there’s bacon in Heaven).
Breakfast, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My pancakes can reach, when feeling out of Weetabix
For the ends of the milk and ideal expiration date.
I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet feed, by sun and candle-light (read: breakfast for dinner).
I love thee freely, as men strive for the microwave’s light;
I love thee purely, as they turn from the Poptart craze.
I love thee with a passion-fruit put to use
In my old yoghurt parfaits, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost egg and soldiers, --- I love thee with the coffee breath,
Toast piles, marmite smears, of all my life! --- and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death (p.s. I hope there’s bacon in Heaven).
Adapted from Sonnet 43, by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
brilliant!
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