You hummed through July’s golden haze,
a snowflake’s chill in the lemonade’s cobweb bloom.
The thrifted market boughs, dusted with dew,
sold cinnamon dreams in mason jars.

Your sweater—knitted moonlight, forests of yarn—
breathed cedar where the sunflowers swayed.
Ornaments spun from river stones,
strung on twine like constellations undone.

A ribbon arced across the July sky,
haloing everything warm and worn.
We shopped through whispers of pine and sage,
each tag a map to a December we’d never unsee.

The calendar turned, but the heat lingered—
a hearth, a snow-dusted letter, our breath in between.