Picnic, by Cynthia Robinson Young

Picnic, by Thomas Hart Benton (USA). 1944.

Picnic

It was a windy day when Adam and Eve left Eden.
Adam carried the picnic basket, mindful still
of his role as Provider, Protector, the Strong One,
neither fully aware of the chasm they had created…
not yet.
 
Earth was already rebelling, already at war.
 A thorn entangled Eve, tore at the hem
 of her dress, Creation’s last attempt to unclothe her,
to go back to the way things were just before…
the earth still groans.
 
The trees still had hands then,
could still move, could still clap
and so they stretched their arms, reaching  
before the full effect of the Fall froze limbs,
and their leaves disintegrated
and left crippled fingers.
 
These last moments grasped to gyrate
 up and out through firmament toward their Creator
in praise,
or plea…
 
We’ll never know.
 
Cynthia Robinson Young

Cynthia Robinson Young is a native of Newark, New Jersey. Her writing has appeared in several journals including Poetry South, Three Line Poetry,  Sixfold, and she was a featured poet in Catapula: A Journal of Southern Perspectives. Her poetry chapbook, Migration, was recently published by Finishing Line Press. She lives in Chattanooga, Tennessee where she is an adjunct professor in Special Education, as well as graduate student in Creative Writing at the University of Tennessee.