picnic

i watched her have her picnic alone beneath the verdant birches of spring and marveled at her grace and her form while making her embroidery sing her sundress, white with cute floral prints the snowdrops and the ivies blend in she wove her thread with purposeful swing her eyes locked in with focus and zing her golden locks did dance with the light and swayed in turn with April wind's breath her needle smoothly glided in flight and guided by her fingers so deft for whom she wove i never could guess she knows me not, and her i know less my only wish is next time she'd thread beside me in our picnic instead