Wednesday, December 29, 2021

Life Is an Affair of People, Not of Places

Two young women walked
Carefully downslope
From the black boulder

Of tumbled basalt
Where they had picnicked
On the scruffy hill.

The car they climbed in,
That jinn, that demon,
Carried them away.

The dramatist wished
She could have heard them,
Whatever they said.

The novelist thought
Of a possible
Fiction anyway.

The diarist took
Note of all of this.
Cyclists pedaled past.

The air moved around.
The air moved around.
The air moved around,

And everyone’s wish
Was granted that day.
The dramatist heard

A fragment passing,
Yeh, I don’t know yet.
The novelist wrote

A full day’s quota
Of word count, then napped.
The diarist filled

The entry’s whole page
With words for details.
The cyclists finished

Their loop, stowed their bikes
In their van, and left.
The two young women?

They came back. They parked.
They walked together
To the water’s edge.

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