You can’t make an omelette without chopping a few mushrooms

On a sunny Sunday morning
The world outside my kitchen window not yet stirring
But for songbirds singing
And the rustle of leaves in the breeze

Chop chop chopping mushrooms
The sharp chef’s blade falling falling falling
On the cutting board, slices of mushroom brushed aside
Readied for sizzling butter and onions

Each strike of knife upon wood
Echoes back through the screened window
From sun-bathed apartments across the street
I appreciate the beauty in this moment

More chop chop chopping
You can’t make an omelette
Without chopping a few mushrooms
On a sunny Sunday morning