Days are passing by,

And the mornings are morphing,

Never static.

 

What was once a morning treat

Presented by my parents

Became a present to myself.

 

Learning what it is I need

Takes me back,

Feeling the warm desert sun

As I venture forth

Into the cool redwood mist.

 

They only see my enjoyment

As I bite down

Into my hot and fluffy breakfast.

 

They call me

The Pancake Man,

Gathering my strength and delight.

 

And yet my nostalgia,

So personally fleeting,

Is apparent only to me.