I watch
as the wavy lines on the maps
move, and the countries’
names are strange, but the people
themselves seem most familiar –
like distant cousins in another
state whose names you once knew
well, but had forgotten, till
the family newsletter came
in the post, and past and present
were linked once again –
almost as if you and they
had flung open an iron gate,
or leaped a knee-high picket
fence, and settled in to chat –
all time forgotten in the flush
of fresh memories –
sweet as the scent of pine
on a forest floor after a long,
hard winter.
© Diane Beaty