One plastic red cup
Anchored down with water weight
Was our sun as we orbited
The splintered picnic table.
Dipping long paintbrushes
Into our pond water paint,
We like cavemen drew
Crude designs on rock canvases.
More smooth brown stones
In a basket of rusted wire
Waited to be turned miraculously
Into the object of our appetites
Some might say
Our soggy paintbrush strokes
Dragged across dirty stones
Vanished with the summer breeze,
But my fingertips absorbed each drop
Just before they blew away
And now, racing in streaks up my arms,
The droplets display their color.