Written In The Laurel Leaves – A Poem

Written In The Laurel Leaves
We’re sitting
in some sort of boho
winged back chairs.
You’ve made a small fire
in the fire’s place
and you’re reading
an old Alice Munro
– circa 1999 –
story
in last week’s New Yorker.
You gaze at me
over your eye glasses
and say
she’s lost her mind
but he loves her anyway.
I say
good.
I should read more
Alice Munro.
I gaze at you
over my eyeglasses.
Unless my memory’s fading
we met in 1999.
It was early Autumn.
Now it’s almost Winter.
Ellespeth

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