The front porch is cold

Hidden from the sun.

Like sliding into a pool on the first day of summer.

Stella lays with me.

Her dark, rich fur soft against my cheek.

 

Small yellow dandelions mix with the grass.

The kind that stain your hands

(“Like bread and butter” Austin once said)

He had stood by the small sand pile

(Our pretend sandbox) And

Blew a handful of grainy sand

Onto my slightly sweaty skin.
 

Now all I see

Is a small dip in the dirt

And (just like Austin,

The sand disappeared)

Hear Cicadas chirp in the branches

Of the giant oak tree.