There’s a picnic blanket under our feet,

wrinkled and dirty, checkered blue and red.
The sky bleeds gold over the mountain’s green
and I look at you, unsure of how we got
to this point. Blue eyes, a soft smile, but who are
you, really? Blushing pink, I finger my hair—

suddenly, a kiss. A soft grab of my shirt,
a small, gentle press of your lips on mine.
I smile, because I know who you are now:
not a stranger but found right here with me
next to the cicadas becoming the night,
the stars winking at the top of our heads,
the moon, hiding its ever-knowing grin.

There’s a picnic blanket under our feet
protecting us from the roughness of earth,
the reality of below. My lungs expand as
I breathe in, chills running down my arm
and mountain air crinkling crisp and raw
under our noses as I grab your hand to jump.