Poem: Ancient Picnics

Ancient Picnics

You stare at the table, and see

the bock of cheese and bread baked

in brick ovens, you see

the wine, it's golden hue lit

by the late afternoon sun. You see

her,

hair flowing in the spring breeze,

skin braised, velvet gold.

You remember it all, spring, summer,

the sudden change of fall,

the winter,

the long, cold, bitter winter,

an eternity of winters that now,

at middle age

has finally fled, bringing you here,

to the ruins of the table,

it's blue checkered cloth torn,

it's wood grey and brittle,

like hope, abandoned too long, or

almost too long, for

it still stands, waiting uncertainly

for another winter, or

a season of repair.

You sigh.

You smile

and reach for your hammer

and the new nails in your pocket.

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The picture was taken along the D&H Rail Trail, which runs through my town of West Pawlet, VT. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom