A Picnic by the Old Oak Tree

Like protruding tendrils

The branches of the solid oak ascend

Into a cerulean sky

Music ensconces every curve of bark

Rising from the portable radio

On the red- and white- checkered

Picnic blanket by the soft-sloped hillside

A clover-speckled meadow of moss

A silent solitude

Save for the vociferous fluttering

Of my zealous heart

As I breathe in

The fresh oak scent

And the purity of nature.

Katy Thompson

Block: 3
April 9, 2012