We’ll walk andante this cerulean afternoon, pick a spot with panoramic view, amid the hum of country, the jazz of birdsong. There we shall picnic.
I may stand a while bare-shouldered in the blizzard of an early cherry blossom, confetti in a zephyr. Or I may take pictures of you. Either way, the minutes will melt like honey, the hours will roll as the bliss of earned rest after labours well done. Flowing as if planned though our time is unscripted, each moment like stepping stones across the creek.
We’ll bring food and wine, we’ll bring our good muscles. And bring no book, for this one day, we’ll leave to idleness, this one day is our feast. We could build a fire, or rather you, for you always knew how. Then stay . . . until the blueness of dusk . . . is a falling tenderness . . . all about us.
Shared for dVerse Prosery, hosted by Ingrid. The challenge is to write a piece of prose using some given lines of poetry. The prompt lines have been taken from Wordsworth’s poem, Lines Written at a Small Distance from my House:
And bring no book, for this one day We’ll give to idleness.