Don't we always long to do the perennial dance of the seasons? Maybe it's even more important to revisit the places we have loved as we sense our lives closing.
These two purple afternoon shadows
take time to cross the restaurant floor.
The woman, frayed, disheveled,
peers through sea glass above a tired shawl.
He bends and bobs like a dandelion ready to blow.
She is tethered to her partner by years
and plastic tubing from the tank she bears.
He steps and halts, steps and halts, steps and halts.
They waltz the distance to their table
overlooking the harbor.
"I thought you had him leashed," I tease carefully.
"I do," she says, "or maybe he has me."
He chortles, chokes, then rests his head.
"We've come here every year," she confesses,
"April and October.
I didn't have the courage last fall,
but it's April...."
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