I love the gentle ways of you,
predictable and lovely, stark
simplicity is what you do,
it's sun or shadow, light or dark.
You dance your dance, you take your stand,
the conversation's short and sweet
with friends who, briefly, held your hand,
with wistful dreams, with self deceit.
Memories are in your book,
that time and grace forbid you show.
You know my page but never look
and, like as not, it’s better so.
“Oh, lunch.”, I hear you softly mutter,
“Jelly, bread and peanut butter."
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