All Our Summers Find One Winter’s End

The only photo I had was of you at that one picnic,
blue, long-sleeved shirt, a turtle neck, and white slacks.
Our summer day at Vilas Park, and you’d not wanted
me to take it because you’d just had a haircut you thought
looked awful, but I thought was cute, the Dorothy Hamill
style everyone was dying to have after the ’76 Olympics,
how it framed your face for our only picnic, that single time,
where you desired only wine, cheese, and French bread.
I said we didn’t picnic like that back in Hawai‘i, except
in the movies, but you said no to meat or dessert, so I
went along and liked at least the wine, a little, although
beer would have been more my picnic speed back home.
I have no idea where that photo is now, but I wish I had it
so even if the image is burned in my brain, I could hold you.

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