in the late afternoon
in the summertime
she walked into his little kitchen
where the walls are painted with rusty reds, glistening sunshine, and postcards from faraway places
where a cheeky breeze plays with the stacks of loose papers on the windowsill
where wild flowers sway in a vase on the table
and a sweet tune is playing on the radio
only to find him flipping fresh pancakes
with his curls tickling the corners of his eyes
and dimples tugging on his smile
as he turned around to greet her.
…and long after the sun had gone down
down behind the gurgling river
and rolling hills
and pointy clock towers
the silhouette of summer
lingers
long into the first foggy mornings of fall.
