“our old stretch“
We gather with the year still warm
from all the hands that shaped it,
passing cups across the table
as if the work might start again
the moment someone nods,
each of us carrying this stretch of our year
in pockets, boots, and notebooks.
A creak in the floorboards falls in time
with the tune, making someone
twist their chair abruptly.
We speak of what we brought here—
not to weigh it, not to measure,
just marking out what abides.
By then a dropped spoon clatters,
the conversation pausing
as the tune settles back into the room,
steady enough for anyone
to step into without worry.
As the night wobbles forward,
the room gathers weather only to shift,
yet no one turns from it.
Someone kicks the table,
knocking a cup—wine splashing
at our boots as we laugh, startled,
into our next stretch of the night.
.
