On conclusion of his Canadian sojourn, he returns to his garret by flying southwards into spring. And all this follows: the shock of seeing forsythia's yellow, blankets of daffodils in green grass, making his eye remember the color green, temperature that doesn't require ten layers to prevent frostbite.

And to top all this off, the massive horde of writers who have descended from the heights to the City, in whose shadow he lives, to talk, argue, banter and share all that they know about books with other adepts, and with other lay-people like him. He opens a calendar page, and tries to cram in as many occasions as possible over the next two days, only to realize that he can't be present in two places at once, in this life that happens outside the covers of a book.

[1] White stone, black stone: you clear heart the former, my distended one the latter. You now carry both in your hands of alabaster, lamplight, night mischief, ghost piano arpeggios on cafe tables.

[2] There is self possession in how you now possess me: After warming my hands on your belly (if cowries were currency again, I would be instantly rich), I walk out into the sea of people, glinting with silvers of mica.

[3] You ask, without hesitancy, "Buy me these", pointing to a a cheap pair of gypsy earrings. I do, and then you say, "help me put them on", and I thread wire into the petals of your ears.

[4] Love is what compresses time: those days and nights have hardened into rock, layer over memory's layer which I tunnel into to discover these raw beginnings of song.

Note: A two year old poem on stones, written when I didn't have someone to give stones to.