A mirror reflecting eyes
not seeing—

The rush to make coffee
Perfect for our virgin guest.

The thrill of a brand new book—
Or one that is tattered and worn,
Held together by its shelf home.

The one who sits quietly in the back corner—
A passive accomplice.
Or the one who visits with all.
A poem that is because our visitor dared to speak it.
The letters drip from the eaves on a rainy day.

An old movie, now collectible,
Sometimes wise.
The tin man creaks in the alcove.

The kitchen chatter over wine—
A dinner with mismatched glasses
To go with dissimilar chairs.

An out of tune piano fitting with a beautiful song.
A guitar—
Plays the same as yesterday and the week before.

A headline with a new twist
Holds the cards of ambition
And agony.

The flicker of candles
That might burn so low
As to set the grass
Or our fingers
Into loss as deep as her.

We converse with the dead
Through plums and church bells—
The collage of faces faded and new.

We celebrate the day without reason—
Except that we were there.  

Rachel Suntheimer