Old friends, wise in years and play
gathering us around their home table
to share a glass, a song, remembrances.
Lives well lived, in a small town that shone
in the holly covered windings
over fences and yards, cottages and
cold cabins, that in memory
become the places of forever.
He smoked his first cigarette on that porch,
threw a ball over the wall into the neighbor
yard that no longer exits, yet does in the
memory that bridges over the mere
formality of current time.
A life lived in a small place, yet wide,
joy and music in the eye, patience
and knowing in that open smile. History
memory, both malleable, mattering only
in the liveliness of the love they served.