The soft camembert,
the baguette still warm ripped in chunks,
The burgundy unlabelled from the vineyard next door,
It teetered against the tree that gives us shade and shelter
The tree stands guard against the world
and our fragile reality
the picnic blanket had a name
I’ve forgotten it.
I wish I could ask her
I think it was Snowman.
Yes Snowman
Snowman went everywhere
Our life and love existed most intensely on that Square of joy.
Stolen moments
Did she keep him or did she bury him?
Does she ever think of him?
If I were her
At the very least,
I would have to put Snowman in the attic.
And occasionally I would climb up into the dark rafters
And wrap myself up in our story.