He steps outside
wading through snow, he exhales more
only to capture the white billowing cloud that forms
outside of open gape
His eyes are five year old wonders,
his hands fifty years old

The second the sole of his workman's shoe
crunches down on white carpet
The neighbors open heated entrances
To greet him

Embracing him warmly with conversation
Buzzing with words and news from the weekend missed
We arrive home to a repaired snow blower, steady and rumbling

The week before
The power lines got into a war with the wind
The neighbor I had rushed past weekly
offered
piles of stored wood, without a thought
keeping the both of us warm for days
in heart and in palms

His dimples are sacred accepting kindness
The words he shares so open and patient,
Curious and compassionate
Leaving our fences shared, not separated

Week to week I only
greet chamomile tea and scripted memoirs
Grateful to flee from humanity behind sacred front door.

Me: "How do you have time to talk to the neighbors?"
Him: "No one is ever truly busy."