Picnic Day

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Today will be a gingham day,
Patterned by the shadow grey
Against the grass that’s grown astray
We’re going on a picnic.

My favorite dress in bluejay-blue,
Eggshell pearls and Mama’s shoes.
A wilting June-time hat will do
We’re going on a picnic.

A little jar of peanut spread,
Jelly too, and rye-seed bread,
Made the way that Daddy said
We’re going on a picnic.

The basket’s wearing wicker-thin
And amplifies the glassy din
Of mostly-empty jars within
We’re going on a picnic.

The blanket’s only four feet wide
Spread as far from side to side
But not because I hadn’t tried
We’re going on a picnic.

The cumulus sky crowds and clears
Rotating like wind-up gears
And now for the first time in years
We’re going on a picnic.

Uselessly I start to cry
And clutch the grass’s verdant high
The tombstone serves as Time’s grey eye
Watching my last picnic.

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