AI love poem generator

Model output

Poem Sunday, and the kettle takes its time. You stand at the window with the wet dog's leash, the gravel path still holding last night's rain in small bright coins that the sun keeps counting. We walk the long way past the allotments, where someone's runner beans have climbed the twine and a crow works through the broken cabbage stalks. You name the birds I only half remember. I give you back the names of the hedgerow weeds that my grandmother made me learn by taste. At home the tea goes cloudy in the pot. You warm the cups first, the way you always do, and I hold mine with both hands for the heat, not because it's cold, but because it's ours to hold. Nothing here is meant to last forever. The milk will sour if we forget it. The dog will shed on the good cushions again. But this table, this light across the flour tin, the small argument about who burned the toast, is the whole of what I want from a Sunday. Revision note: I kept the stanzas loose and conversational and removed any closing promise, so the ending rests on ordinary details rather than a grand declaration.