We sit on the porch and watch the sun harvest the last
of the light, you here because I pulled you outside to quietly
ponder the feel of time stroking
our arms.
I would gladly trade a year of my
life just to sit
on this porch with you, breathing
in the mimosa flowers,
the old white dog shedding her
hair all over our feet.
I would lean back in grandpa’s
wooden chair not minding
the hardness because you are near,
and hear the first cricket of summer
begin his luminous song.
We could sit here remembering the
weight of all our years,
then, a meteor! And our hands would reach out to each other,
fingers linking as if they had minds
of their own.
J. Pratt-Walter, ⓒ 2023
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