Letters from an old friend
Came (a long way) knocking               at my core
And I think that we were sitting at a desk
With a typewriter and coffee, slightly burnt.
It was not so cold outside as the rays of the evening sun
Could even warm our hands and come knocking
At the core                       of a shared moment in the 1950’s.
Or… I think that we were sitting, hands busy
With a piece of embroidery,
telling stories learned as little girls,
Adding details from the needlework of our imagination,
In another century, but not long ago.
Emails from a dear friend
Took me to that moment, rare,
When children were safely playing
And outside there was a war,
Or something we didn’t believe in.
But we could laugh and make up stories
Quickly scribbled in a notebook…
So many years ago,
When time did not count
And the memory of creativity
Came knocking               at the core
                         (le coeur)
And time was left in a drawer,
Forgotten there for a while
With all the noisy illusions
And heroic disillusions
And…we left the fame and glory at the periphery,
While creation stood, right in the middle
And we could write         to the core
Of free, free friend          ship.