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There's a secret picnic spot |
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A place for us to greet |
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To stretch out our feet |
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If we go there now |
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With blanket and basket |
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Lay down in the tall grass |
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Spread our things out and feast |
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Meet the setting sun with our blank slate |
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My distractions concentrated on an eight by six piece of wool |
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As darkness seeps through the trees |
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And spreads over our secret picnic spot |
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We'll dig in |
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Dig with our hands, tearing the roots |
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Digging, scraping, digging |
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The moon comes up howling |
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Racing, digging, scraping |
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Breezing dark across the sky |
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Caught in the branches |
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Swaying up and over |
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Through the clouds and black |
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Starless |
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Secret |
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Basket turned broomstick |
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A hayride across the big blue and black |
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Buried, deep mounds of dirt and stardust covering up |
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Eight by six piece of wool draped over fine lines |
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The curves of a feast |
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This is our secret picnic spot |
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Turned inside out and made pure |
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By the heavy wind and rustling leaves |
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From now till we greet again |
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Joining hands and feet |
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Tender teeth, digging and scraping |
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Tender feast |
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Moonlight sway |
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Over all |
