* after the painting  ‘Picnic’
                                                          by Nick Gadbois

  

     

At that table, I will meet you there.
We will float, standing above our own shaped
shadows, lighter
                                                        than air.
 
There is a meadow that we both know 
that is not an imagined place. A made-to-
order field, one thousand brush strokes deep.
On a rise under the orange and violet skies
a table waits.
                                   I will meet you there.
 
There is treeline below the meadow
where sits a table, the treeline is a thousand
brushstrokes long with a liminal dark
for hiking or hiding. At that table,
                                   I will meet you there.
 
The table waits for us, new, made of inch 
and a half, clear coated pine. The frame
is heavy, inch and a half galvanized pipe. It
floats, resting above its own shaped shadow,
lighter than air.
                                      We can meet there
 
                                 at that table,
we will stand in fresh light, we will read.
The paint will dry, harden and crack. Shadow
and light will be our pencils and our fine feed.
A table awaits. Set and empty, 
                                              lighter than air.
 
At that table, We will float, standing above our
own shaped shadows, lighter than air. 
                               Will you meet me there?