Walking up the drive way with
forty years chatting in my ear,
to knock on the door, welcomed
by someone that calls this place
Sitting in a room filled with stories
a generation old, whose colorful
tales are of a unique hue to me.
There was a tapestry that kept
Remembered roofless house,
concrete bruises, blood stained across
the street. The doctor’s decaying hands
gave me shots. Sled riding down hills
fingers freezing hat left somewhere.
Then listening to a waterfall
of friendship, that has been feeding
flowers and willows along the stream,
I search for a glass among the blossoms
to hold this clear liquid I can feel,
and drink of it again and again.