My Muse on Sunday

I remember growing up in middle America,
a little town in northern Oklahoma,
where Sunday was a day of rest
and a day to dress
in your Sunday Go to Meetings clothes.

I remember every Sunday we got dressed
in our Sunday best,
went to church and Sunday school
and then we went home
for our day of rest.

Grandma didn't rest
instead she cooked her best;
I didn't understand the reason then,
but now I do.

While Grandma was in the kitchen cooking,
she was worshiping the Creator
by making the week's most delicious meal.

At 68,
my muse doesn't rest on Sunday
instead it worships God
through stanza and line,
while intoning gratitude
through simile and metaphor.