A year ago, I found you laying on the yellow

centre of a daffodil taking a nap, maybe

waiting for a honeybee to stumble among your path

and fall on your lap. You were a battered word, overused

yet obsolete soiling your wild oats

in the bunch of library books gathering dust

in the snow, marked defected due to their misquotes.


Now you are a empty candy jar, twirling

and felicitous, with chock-full stomach and infectious

smile of a lustrous sunshower with a cigar. Still the same,

with dents to mark your progress and polished

shoes to grade your homework, no longer

hooked to  crooked bra-hooks and still scared of red

stains,  working on your five-spiced rags and still making

tea from the teabags; that’s how  I found you again,

today at the sea bank.