Old Friends’ Rendezvous

By Pam Burr Smith

The first circle we sat in was outside on the grass
between the house and the barn.
We occupied old chairs and sat around old tables,
took pictures of each other and laughed eating olives.
Drank wine and pear juice.

Stephen brought a poem he had written
about some reliquaries Mark had built decades ago,
and he brought color xeroxes of paintings he had made
of his own imaginary reliquaries, inspired by Mark —
sacred boxes, animated boxes, some of them with antlers or legs,
every color in the world suggested if not present.

We passed the art around as Mark slipped into the barn
and came out with the reliquaries dusted by time.
We passed them around, exclaiming in wonder
and joy, the simple gift of being alive together
outside in golden September with so much shared art.

When darkness stole in we drifted to the house.
Set up around the kitchen table and sat for a harvest supper
cooked from our dirt and sun gardens
and our heart and soul gardens.

And here, in truth, I don’t remember what we talked about.
But I can tell you where each of us sat,
how Lindsay leaned toward every word,
how Noma’s voice came with melon softness,
and Abby’s warm cadences sang us into the night.