Old Friends

The telephone is still,
has not rung since seven bells
tolled away another day,
the wood stove companionably creaks,
heavy rain falls on the roof,
drips from every eave and cornice
of my life,

water that finds its way to the river,
hastening to the sea,
this afternoon shimmered
in blue and green opalescence
sent crystal waves with liquid voice
giggling upon the shore at my feet,
lapping, murmuring intimate tones
with old friends
gnarled roots,
mossy stones.