Ranunculus

In front of the shop there are stands that contain more fruits, more vegetables, and more flowers than they can sell inside, their long and skinny space.  The stands outside are wooden boxes on frames, tilted at just the right angle so the passerby can better see what’s on offer, the wide display of colors and textures, and yet not allow the display to tumble down, out of the stand, onto the ground.

Too many choices for a simple picnic along the river, the mighty flowing river that, tonight, ambles and meanders.  Strawberries, soft, warm, and melting, to place on top of the white, gooey camembert that is spread over the crusty bread; mint to muddle in the bottle of water we will share, baguettes with sliced meats and cheeses and butter, cut into pieces small and easy to wield while sitting on the grass in front of the water.

Next to the fruits and vegetables, the flowers, roses and, my favorites, the ranunculus, a riot of red and yellow and white and pink, tied in a bunch with twine to set down in the middle of the blanket that sits on the grass by the river.

Because one is always ready for a picnic, by the river, in the spring.