poem: Watermelon Days

Days like this feel stolen
like we swiped them from Nature’s basket overnight
while she slept soundly. 
Chins buried earlobes-deep in that swollen green rind,
jawlines sticky, grinning guiltily
we devour every morsel of this day.

We can’t contain this particular joy.
The type that fills our calloused soles with
phantom mountain landscapes,
our womb’s ripened nerves with
the echo
of unblemished sprites’ feet on new earth.

We all unfold
to stolen days like this.