On a night picnic
the languid quarter moon
canoes over our heads.
We eat slices of cool black sky
the luscious pieces slipping
from fingers to mouths
a sprinkle of sharp stars crunching
between the stony pearls of our teeth.
From the basket you pull a box of
cherries saying they are just the thing.
We lie on our backs shooting cherry pits
at the moon missing by a hair every time
and wish for nothing.
Lovely.
Thank you!