A blustery Sunday afternoon,
snow falling in fat too-wet-to-stay flakes
mixing with slow raindrops more typical of early spring.

I’m bundled inside a worn leather booth,
warmed by the industrial heater vent above me
and the pitcher of boozy lemonade sweating on the table.

A lazy hour ticks by and I’m swimming in it now,
the fresh taste of summer lemon acting as a sour brine
for the delicious sweetness of the book I’m reading for dessert.