There isn't much in life

A book

A chair

A lamp

A shelf

A nook

And you stop...

You listen

You learn

You breathe

You look

You return

There's a breath

A book

A chair

and light

There must be light

To read

To learn

To look

To return

And...

There is life.

Tonight, after the many ages, I had a long talk with an old friend. Defining the word old as someone I have known for many years.

I was able to meet her sister for the first time after many years of hearing tales. It was pleasant. I enjoyed seeing an incredible intellect coupled with the appropriate humbleness which will become a beautiful personality. (even if she may not believe me.)

To fathers: Life was not always good, seldom great, but always loved. If nothing else, we learned to love unconditionally and see past flaws and accept love for what it was, not for what it should have been. It was still love.

I have not written anything recently, but for the friend and her sister, I'm re-publishing one written about my friend and I which will give a bit of insight into this evening's conversation.

There is a sense of displacement watching good friends having a conversation

made up entirely by the first half of one-liners.

A sense of self forgotten under a beautiful snow colored blanket of

tender reminiscence not belonging to your.

No explanation required or requested

The silence is not uncomfortable

And you watch as if outside an ice covered window

Hearing bits of love pinging on the pane

Seeing distorted looks of happiness and joy, not belonging to you.

Although this is not the final version of this poem, it does give a bit of insight. There should be comments about enola gay and necco wafers in there. And the guy with the shirt

Enjoy.