Sunlight drips on freckled skin,
cicadas spin the sky in gold;
your laughter skips across the lake,
a skipping stone my fingers hold.
Barefoot dreams in clover trace
the shape of hours yet to bloom;
time exhales like warm guitar,
every chord predicts June.
Let the jasmine write our names
on air that tastes of lemonade;
this moment hums—a prelude soft—
to every love we haven’t played.