The long backyard of neatly-cut grass stretched out silently beneath the summer sun.
Far from the house, along the wood panel fence of fading red paint, stood a teen-aged maple tree.
Under the tree lay Sarah, her heart-shaped face shaded by the large leaves,
her bare feet exposing themselves to the hot summer sun.
In the morning the warmth holds you close,
Softly whispering day-long promises of bright afternoons.
Ending with a dreamy dusk of oranges and pinks.
The black and white checkered floor of the kitchen was dusted with flour and smudged with bits of shortbread cookie dough that had flown from the hand-held mixer. The mixture got beneath Sophia’s bare left foot as she walked back-and-forth from the white marble counter to the kitchen table where her laptop displayed the recipe’s website. The sticky feeling from the creamed butter annoyed her.
