Name Your Flavor
 
 
If we are very, very lucky, one day
heaven floats us a big grass and moss
cushion frilled by leaves from, say,
a willow oak that knows its stuff.
Tree whose rings go back and back
and like-minded giants whose pleasure
it is to shade as we thrill at air
tastes like cherry-ade with a teensy
spritz of champaign.  Breeze riffles
leaves and hair.  Add little ones to
stir.  Here a toddler, there a biiiiiig
boy and a  biiiiiig girl.  What fun
it is to blow bubbles at a pink plastic
table teeters caterwampus.  Don't miss
the tot balancing one tiny, sandaled foot
at a time.  Dimple-starred grin going
to slay you.  Big people bustle about,   
chatting up catsup, mustard, pickles,
chips.  Sorry 'bout the sauce, someone
mouths.. Mmm, smell charring dogs,
Smartdogs, burgers.  Make  room, okay?
No one hurts, no one feels sad.  Rumbles  
are belly laughs adding exclamation points
to giggles, chortles, and chuckles.  Little'n's
outbursts quiet in seconds, cause forgotten.
Oh, and we have pie!  Chocolate, lemon,
some kinda nut.  Layer cake for good
measure!.  What is sweet, cold, and calls
for extra scoops?  Somebody please run
and get bowls.  More spoons be good.
If we are very, very lucky, one day.
 
 
       (c) Phyllis Jean Green,  Memorial Day, 2008