before I let it fall upon the grass,
so overgrown and lush as to make my own habitat
contained within fringed edges –
soft hills of fabric held up above the flimsy padded greens,
pleated valleys of warped paisley by bare feet
and bunched around my white boots,
scuffed and statuesque but out-of-bounds.
The clouds have a right to be here
above these greens and on this day.
It’s nice to break the blue sometimes.
Flat blankets atop grass are just as likely as
clear skies in spring, or white shoes pristine,
a picnic without ants and a just-in-case sweater remembered,
tucked and at the ready inside a bag.
There’s room enough for two if I adjust these four corners.
Would you sit here with me?
Just us on Earth’s crust and some ants and a blanket
And the sky, which just as likely beams blue
when you no longer need me,
as when I’m all you choose to see.