Raspberries, peaches, figs and an orange
picked at dawn
fill the picnic basket beside me.
The sand beneath me is hot;
the sun even hotter.
"Can I have a peach? my companion asks.
I watch a bead of sweat
roll down his cheek
as he bites into the fruit.
Nectar sprays my face.
He jumps up and
runs into the cold cold surf.
But I do not follow,
Reluctant to wash off the scent of summer.
Mimi stands behind my baby fig tree.
I am ever the optimist.
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