The sunlight glistens as the warmth of early March
melts the landscape
of Southern Vermont’s winter freeze.
There is a steady breeze
highlighting a late Saturday afternoon where soon
twightlight will dim the bright foundation
of Midtown Manchester;
a place where skiers and snowboarders will soon gather to greet
familiar and new faces
from near and distant places;
a small town where new created memories will meet;
where the language of time takes a moment to pause
as nature embraces.
And here, in a small cafe called Ponce
we sit at a tiny table for two
just in the corner of a small rustic dining area.
The wooden floors creak the sounds of generations merged
and in the heated air, an aroma of cinnamon flavored
muffins linger as the ceiling has taken on the same color
of sunset’s painted sky.
As we look into each other’s eyes
there is a little Ella Fitzgerald whispering in the background
just loud enough to feed the listening
appetites starving for some Jazzy Blues as on the walls
the fingerprints of history are barely
faded behind the shadows of observers
captured in different structures of conversation
as are we. In this place where no one knows our names,
are a witnesses to another chapter in our storybook of love
just as we have become witnesses to the poetry written and observed around us.
So many smiles
gathered in a little place, in a little town . So many journeys
colliding on similar paths of inspiration and renewal
and so many lovers romancing life
just by being a part of life - loving each other by loving
every aspect of humanity that rests around us.
Tarringo T. Vaughan