Tuesday Afternoon turned Wednesday ongoing into Summer’s Evening
The tents are red tinged green, inside seashells at sunset. When ladies at picnics merge with chaos and cream, every possible perspective looks the same. It’s overlapping snapshots of fingers, truffles, mouths and the smiles in between. All daffodil parasols twirl, as cranberry winds blow in from the fields, a dainty voice heard whispering: “Eat the truffles, sip the Earl Gray; the sun has stopped moving, all day, all day, all day.” The ladies are spun and spin in harmonious concentricity; the grass is green, the sky is blue, the cream is sweet. All curves, ergonomic; the effortless bending of elbows and rotating of wrists compels cocktail glasses to tip, and to connect, with rounded lips and eager mouths, until pomp turns to graveled lullabies inside soft eardrums. Oh, what the laureled gods will do when blind, ignorant faith runs amuck at a party of the privileged.
K. Shawn Edgar | Frosted on the Inside | Single Cogged | Non-Worshipping