We are between the Chaste
and the Seed Moons, between
Sap and Grass. Winter lingers
on the dark side of the road,
high in the mountains; but here
in the valley, spring touches
the liquid face of the pond, buds
on the birches. Long friends
share stories like knitted scarves,
unravelled, rewoven; nothing
lost or forgotten, nothing unused.
Bamboo needles, silver hairpins,
a hospital balcony, a death bed.
Brutal family holidays, road trips
in deep snow. We pass back
and forth between us, gold ear-
rings; apricots and grapes; what
we know and what we don't.