The Picnic

Root beer floats.

Children play

under the

arms of trees.

Hey, check out

that old dandy

in pressed jeans

brings his own

folding picnic tables.

Honey decks 

the tables in fine

acrylic ware.

A third fires

the mesquite grill.

Sweet smoke curls

dance in the breeze

drifting by family

and friends.

Whispering wind 

tickles toasted ears

with auburn tresses.

Wind whispers,”

I am here.”

Find a peace

of the jigsaw puzzle.

Time to eat.

A spot remains empty,

waiting.

— Ann Rodela