Old farmhouse more than a pied-a-terre.
Her home. An aged depot, once docked
in Bigelow, its inner window here
still, frosted and marked “Tickets.” We four walk
the pasture, breathe in the peace. Chris and I
then sit, catching up on years away, while
Renie grills lamb and Diane simmers sides
of spinach and cheese grits. We dine in style.
I must say this right now about love: you
really can find it at dinner tables
in candlelight, its flame reflected through
eyes of four old friends, focused gaze able
to channel deeper than you’ll ever know.
There’s more than moon, stars, candle here aglow.
Roger Armbrust
May 31, 2007
