4.7.24: Postcard, unwritten

The sound of his laughter,
as slick as watermelon seeds,
tastes like the feeling of 
bare feet running through
a sprinkler made rainbow
hovering above the thick 
scent of a shaded, mown lawn.  
 
There is a wicker porch chair
proposing a seamless, wide-angle
view of this scene; its empty
cushions missing the welcomed
weight of your presence, and 
the posture of all the stories
you would have told.  

Wish you were here.