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.