Watermelancholy
on a summer afternoon,
spitting seeds into the grass
that frames the fields of June.
Juices run in rivulets
pale pink across his chin,
which almost match exactly
to his lips formed in a grin.
Sunlight warms the
tee-shirt stains
from watermelon spills,
each piece excised carefully
through 7 year old skills.
Breezes whistle soft tunes
only heard when we are small
rinds lie scattered in green commas
that paused upon their fall.
Watermelancholy is
a youthful joy I miss,
thus I lift my pen to savor
some long ago sweetness.
Honorable mention
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