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Our Last Family Picnic


It wasn't so much the number of ants that came to the picnic, but their size. One of them ate Granny's chocolate cake in one bite, and Granny in another. The rest of us ran, but only I made it to the car.

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tiny kite-shaped frogs
in a plastic-covered cup
need some holes in that

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No Basket Necessary

A new trysting spot, scenic, secluded, just far enough off the beaten track. Littered with, enhanced by, curious rock formations. One in particular drew interest, and was a puzzle. Alas, weathered granite, it was not. Rather, the head of a mostly buried, very hungry, giant. The question quickly became, who was picnicker, and who was picnicked?

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embers of a picnic

The converter rattles and she sighs,

nostalgic for the homeworld she has never seen.

So many journeys have criss-crossed space,

obscuring pioneer footsteps,

and suddenly the world is lost,

its location and even name forgotten,

only a few lines of poetry remembered,

and brittle fragments of maps preserved with care.

No one thought they'd lose it,

she supposes,

but much was lost during the Troubled Times.

She traces a river on a map

(imagine, molten ice, free upon the surface)

and dreams of picnics, gamboling wolverines, and oxide-painted hills.

You can't go back, but you can

reenact ancient ritual as a form of worship --

Cold it might be,

and breathers required,

but a picnic they could have.



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