Let me see.
There must be some nice things
I can say about you.
I get to hang out with my inner hermit again.
Where you been? he asks sullenly.
Busy, I say, busy. But hey! It’s good to see you.
Can we, you know, have a beer together? Bring in a Pizza? Watch ‘The Farmer Wants a Wife?’
Sure, I say, sure.
We hug each other. It’s like old times. There’s a tear in his rheumy eyes.
I got time now.
I go to the old bookshelf. It’s pretty dusty. Don’t get much reading done when you’re out and about.
And I grab one, that big Collected Graham Greene
and we settle into ‘The Quiet American’.
There are some stories you can’t read enough.
You could do with a shower, I say. So could you, says hermit.
We give each other a playful punch. It’s like old times.
I watch his hands, his fingers twitching. He pulls back the curtain, peers outside.
Do you reckon we could ,,,,?.
Why not? I say. It’s the season for it.
We stoke up the fire, sit side by side, writing our shivery little three liners, haiku on wind, frost, ice, hailstones.
Winter, you’re not all bad.