Picnic

I sit on the concrete, on spirals of sand,
Just dangling my feet as I hold in my hand

A half-eaten apple, a gift from my son,
And watch the light dapple the sight of him run

Away from the waters, a smile on his face,
Toward me the thought on his tongue and he race,

His cousins are splashing about with their dads,
The sounds of their laughter and happiness adds

To all of the pleasure their grandfathers feel
While grandmothers, measuring sand on their heels,

Surrender their words of advice to the breeze;
And here is my son now, his hands on my knees.

The picnic is over, the mothers all smile,
For happy is mother if happy is child.

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