and now, it is over. Back in my wicker basket, go the plates and glasses for two. Stained with wine, they tell of laughter, of hands held, of glances exchanged. The bottle, empty, returns to be filled with fresh dreams, new ambitions and untold secrets, only to be uncorked again when the time is right. My baskets, scattered with crumbs of love and affection pile up in darkness gathering new strength from the solid wicker, grown in rivers, dried by calloused hands and twisted through painful contortions into something beautiful, something to be appreciated by the right person, to be loved, caressed and brought out as an object of beauty under sunny skies, with high skimpy clouds to be unfurled again.
I will picnic again, but not for a while.