July wisps through the air.
The crackling fire, harmonized with deep belly laughter, as
faces illuminate in the orange raging fire.

Graham crackers break.
Crumbs plunge as the perfect two pillows lay to rest,
a chocolate blanket planted on the pillows.

Ghostly pale mallow.
My fingers dance throughout the bag, grazing a mallow for the best s’more yet,
A fat one or skinny one? I’d want them all.

Branch pierces through the middle.
Situated down in the embers, orange sparks fly,
the pale little mallow begins its transformation.

Boom. Engulfs in flames.
I yank my torch out and frantically blow,
praying my mallow isn’t too charred.

The fire lost his roar and the roasting compassed.
I place my freshly toasted mallow on its pillow and blanket,
Smooshing it down, mallow seeps off the side.

Chocolate melts as I take a bite.
With sticky fingers and lips, and
gooey hands, I reach for another stick.