How Words are Formed

Six women arrive at the table. Cup remnants of
waking dreams in crowded, dissipating wisps,
faceless characters and confusing maps. We arrive to decipher
together, mouth groggy snippets over biscuits and bacon.

Outside, snow that could just sigh. We've returned to our
previous seats. Forks placed to the left or tossed collectively
into the center.

Last night we drank at this table, over Scrabble tiles.
Making up rules. This morning, one early riser
emerges from the day's weather. Sock monkey with down
on her brown cap.

We start a new game.

Acronyms are not acceptable, we decide. Directions
no where to be found. I slowly stir my drink.

Another undresses to hot tub on this vacation patch of
Colorado cottonwood and pine. Red cars turn white
in the driveway. We reach for the names and favorite
sayings of bygone partners as if a clue inside. How we
arrived here.

Fortunes scripted on our tea bags. One continues
to whip farm fresh eggs.

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Vessel

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