Daybreaks, sun melts down her garnished meal like frosting on a hotcake. Beginning a delicate dictatorship with man and nature; she rules.
She sits hovering over her food, picking morsel by morsel the tallest parts,
And reserves the crust for the moon and his friends. A kindly sort she is; taking turns.
Ironically, her food worships the fingers of her hands; though never having seen her hot face. They raise their limbs, yet bow their heads to her glory. She is an idol.
Theirs is a need of heart and soul. For without her; they couldn’t possibly grow. Her law is dire, she must devour.
Warming the plate and kissing every crumb, she eats.
Good morning, breakfast.