We speak the way old friends speak—
knowing each other’s stories,
the nuances and undertones.
She always knows just what to ask,
just how to nudge me toward
quiet revelation. I don’t do my best
to hide. In fact, it is easy
to speak of my brokenness.
We pause in a field
where the forest has been felled
in an avalanche—
the slender white trunks are strewn
in a chaotic jumble—
but oh, how clear the view.
I wrote today about desperately missing my old friend who is also called Joan! Your poem expresses the closeness we once had very well.
ahhhh, that’s a fine synchronicity! Here’s to the wonderful Joans of the world
I loved the double posts.