Cold Coffee Chronicles

I was worrying about tomato seed stains,

But then I realized

I’ll miss them in a year.

When I pull that onesie

Out of the tote upstairs.

Won’t it be lovely to remember the sun

In their hair?

Why would I wash

out our imprinted time?

As if it was a mistake.

As if my anxiety about those red specks,

Was more important than my babies’

Juice streaked chins?

As if the yellow streaks on their palms

From my plants, were a nuisance.

As if the green tomatoes scattered about the soil, weren’t as important as their ripened cheeks.

The breeze softly rustles the leaves of my mind. I realize.

The rusty stains remain to remind of our summertime that July.