Day 571

There was a place by the sea
where we sat and talked.  There
were pastries, strong coffee, tables
far enough apart that we could
hear each other well
over the sound of the tide, the ebb
and flow of voices.  We would sit outside
when the weather was warm, our hair
damp and salty afterward.  Now
the café is gone, the tables
are gone, there are no
pastries anywhere.  You, too,
friend of so many years,
are gone.  What remains
is the memory of our long
unbroken conversation, the thread
we’d drop and pick up, drop
again and pick up. What remains
is the salt air.  The sea, its rhythm
predictable.  Eternal?