Night Picnic

Night Picnic

I laid out a soft blanket
Over blue-green grass, freshly mowed,
Spreading before us a feast fit for folk
In dim evening's half-light.
Our hushed neighborhood
Listened to squeal upon titter,
The growing triumph of our night picnic.
There went a bat! Through the velvet blue air
Swoop-flapping with rubbery puppet wings.
It's not a bat, it's a birdie,
Chirped a skeptic observer
While the resident linguist screeched
And squeaked a welcome and
We all waited expectantly for the
Return of that near-mythic aviator,
Until the conversation turned to
Fireflies. They don't live here,
so far west. But I saw them in
dreams last night. As a child
we caught them of a Missouri evening,
barefoot and chiming excitedly, just like this.
How well I remember. Will they?
I squelch the impulse to hush,
To settle, thinking how few the moments
And passing like breeze.
And so proceeds a frenzied chase
Dog, tot, princess and grizzly bear,
Until stars evoke quiet
And we are all still together
Then I don my mortarboard and robe,
Point to the sky and reveal
The wonder of constellation.
These same stars, as long as we live
Is all the sky will hold. Charted, mapped
And designated by older wizards and magi.
They will outlive us. You will show
Your own entourage one day.
It is warm in this instant of meshing.
I want to lengthen it, but it's time is
as predetermined as those stars
and now is ended. Fold up the blanket
and tuck into bed my own twinkling gems.

(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006