in the summer, the picnic table was crowded
so crowded in fact that we tucked our elbows in
or risked bumping another
and knocking drinks onto the ground
root beer seeping into the carpet of needles
a forest stained
before, in the spring, we felt a chill
but everything was greening out
the air itself was younger, growing, laughing
we wondered about soup and how to bring it
without a thermos:
we ate sandwiches of mercy
the ground beneath our feet pretended we were trees
our bark was made of cookies, of applesauce
in the turning of the year, in the rounding of the earth
we thought we were in a circle and so came back
in autumn, to the table, and to witness the leaves that kept on falling
wet, cold, the trees so tired they set down their burdens
on the darkened earth
in late autumn we did not sit at the picnic table
we barely stopped to even look
we walked like quiet deer off to the west
back to our car as the light expired
soon we were outside our home, standing on the porch
this is where we were when winter called
where it whispered something behind our backs
just as we closed the door and went inside
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