My son and I toast marshmallows
over the flames of old love letters
burning, curling
into the ashes
of picnics past in green fields
streamed through with sepia-toned
water, clear in the way of old photos.
My son and I toast marshmallows
over the flames of old love letters
burning, curling
into the ashes
of picnics past in green fields
streamed through with sepia-toned
water, clear in the way of old photos.
