A collection of thoughts

We’d sit in stoned silence,

Slipping through the halls like ghosts,

Sly as foxes, avoiding

Your parents, hiding

Our fiery eyes

And toothy smiles.

Your room reminds me of

The mountains:

A safe haven with

A warm yellow glow,

The brass bed and gas lamp,

The iron bear and collages

Of memories: black and white

Photographs, news clippings,

Poems. “This is what made

Me like poetry:” It’s T.S. Elliot.

I miss the winter months,

The bitter cold walks

And billowing snow,

The street lamps enflaming

The flakes:

Winter’s fireflies.

I miss the mittened hand

And the wool hat, the rosy cheeks.

Arson, the fires built of

Frozen twigs,

Crackling with cold:

Orange and purple and blue,

Bright sparks.