Draft #1: Suppose
You could drink sunlight.
Collect it in a chipped coffee mug
as it streams through hickory leaves
onto the dewy front lawn
and savor it.
I wonder what it tastes like.
No doubt it would radiate warmth,
a drink you crave when
the sky is a cold, dull gray
and the earth is blindingly white.
Perhaps it would be buttery and rich
like being home for Christmas
and listening to stories being told
from mismatched dining chairs
around the worn kitchen table
while playing cards late into the night.
Or maybe it would taste tropical,
with bright citrus and earthy coconut
reminding you to celebrate small victories
like catching up on a long list of tasks
that you deliberately forgot
until right before they needed to be done.
I would find a way to bottle it up
so I could store it for desperate times
when stubborn clouds won’t part
or night refuses to turn into day.
If only we could drink sunlight.
Draft #2: Tasting Sunlight
Suppose you could drink sunlight.
Collect it in a chipped coffee mug
as it streams through hickory leaves
onto the dewy front lawn
and savor it.
I wonder what it tastes like.
No doubt it would radiate warmth,
a gentle heat that flows like molasses
over your tongue and down your throat
before pooling in your core.
Perhaps it would be buttery and rich
like being home for Christmas
and listening to stories being told
from mismatched dining chairs
around the worn kitchen table
while playing cards late into the night.
Or maybe it would taste tropical,
with bright citrus and earthy coconut
reminding you to celebrate small victories
like catching up with old friends
over greasy pizza and mini golf
just like you used to do.
I would find a way to bottle it up
so I could store it for desperate times
when stubborn clouds won’t part
or night refuses to turn into day.
If only I could drink sunlight.
