Sunday's

In homes where laughter intertwines with grace,

A Sunday blooms in an embrace of faith,

Where skin like night's own canvas does entwine,

In spiritual awakening, so divine.

The grandmother, a matriarch of love,

Her prayers ascend like incense far above,

The grandfather, with stories rich and rare,

His wisdom floats like music in the air.

The aunt, whose laughter dances through the walls,

The uncle, standing firm and standing tall,

Sisters and brothers, links in life's grand chain,

Their unity, a shelter from the rain.

Children's delight, in innocence they play,

Their joyous peals, a soundtrack for the day,

The smallest baby cradled with such care,

Each coo, a note in this familial prayer.

The mother's hands, which toil with gentle might,

The father's arms, a fortress in the night,

Together weaving family's tight-knit web,

A tapestry with love's eternal ebb.

And friends who come, not born but chosen kin,

Are welcomed to the feast that dwells within,

The table set with memories and dreams,

Where every dish with deeper meaning teems.

Here, histories and futures are a meal,

Shared with each bite, as hearts begin to heal,

The sustenance of soul is what they share,

A feast of love, transcendent as a prayer.

So gather round, this kin of dusk-hued skin,

Their Sunday's spiritual awakening,

For in this circle, where they join their hands,

Is the truest feast of love that ever stands.