Old friends come back in like skipping stones
across water’s surface
in slow motion;
touching down for just a moment,
and never long enough.
Leaving ripples which flow well beyond
the place of touching,
of contact.
Finally sinking beneath what’s seen
to rest in the deep of the soul,
creating new landscapes far below,
and new currents above.
Our shores long to be visited again,
to be stirred by the passing through,
the fine flick of the wrist
of old friends.
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