"Life's no picnic," is the lesson
I was given as a child.
And yet, all these years,
that is exactly what it has been.
I find a grassy mound,
spread out the red checkered cloth,
lie back, look up, and take it all in:
blue bowl of sky, perfect puffy
birds on the wing.
The basket of goodies
changes every day:
the wonders of Choice,
I peek under the cloth;
every time: Perfect.
Just what I wanted.
The guest list keeps changing,
depending on who feels like a picnic
on that particular day.
The chore list changes too,
"from each, according to his ability,
to each according to his need".*
Some of us get to do more chores,
while others eat cake off a golden saucer,
because that is just the way of it.
The afternoon grows dreamy,
we replete with the perfection of the day.
Butterflies flutter by, bees buzz,
and no one is frightened of being stung.
We thank them for the honey.
They dip a wing,
and circle the hive.
Animals cavort and frolic
all over the meadow,
unafraid and safe.
On my picnics, no animal
is ever harmed.
The homeless, the refugees,
the outcasts, the disenfranchised,
the suffering, the lonely,
are invited guests,
welcomed with love.
We open the basket,
distribute the choicest treats.
There is room for all of us here.
for Susan's prompt at Midweek Motif: Picnic. A metaphor for our world, the way it could be, the way we would so love it to be.