There’s a flower that blooms every Sunday,
as dripping dews greet the morning ray,
and birds are chirping so jolly and gay,
marking the day’s serenity, happily stray.

On Monday the flower’s petals furl and dream away,
calming the fray, nestled deep in the hay.
It plants its seed with hope on Tuesday,
withholding decay, counting wishes the very next day.
And on Thursday its swelling buds sway.
dancing along with butterflies that come to play.
Friday marks its growing array,
With blooming scents filling the pathway.
On Sabbath it prepares for its heyday,
to greet the world back on Sunday.

Oh, my dear, this perpetual Sunday flower
makes coffee taste better
than any other day.
Like your smile that seems as soft as the sky,
it makes my heart let go of all the dismay,
and we cling to these fleeting moments,
as if we will never ever bid goodbye,

someday.