Sitting in the grass, on an old tattered blanket.
Holding hands, thinking it.
Love is in the air, and so if the fragrance
of food from the basket of our hearts.
Joined together and intertwined.
Red wine and the finiest words said in liquid tones.
Put into a zone of loved and sacrificed misery.
Our picnic of life, the food of love, the smells and hearts, going
from our head to up above.
A contest entry
- the picnic by sweet arrival.
1000 points, ended July 25, 16 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Yeah be truthful!
Comments
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those tattered blankets are the best to sit on.
nicely done.
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Beautiful; clever take on the prompt
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