back

Return,
after a while.
Flit between

the freer air
of misplaced, then
found

glitter’s glee
and the trudge,
of not quite  yet

hard winter’s
softened but cold ground.
Warm clutches,

toe stares alike.
Memory with its tints,
and the present,

Bought to bear
upon each other.

No

particular

chronology

to their pinks,

their blues.

Bumped into
as paths cross

on cold nights
or eyes meet,
in rooms

they weren’t expected
to be.
Glasses drained.

With those
lesser seen,
words team.

They bubble,
and spit.

Once

or twice,

they might slur
as the night progresses.

And,
on occasion

with rant

or belly laugh,

old matters,
their discussion
their redress,

tumble from tongues.

To fill new rooms,

in other places,

with old, cherished stories

and the warmth
they bring.
Being back.

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