© 2017 by P Michael Biggs
We gathered around the firepit.
Eight of us, strangers mostly,
yet all were invited in.
Hasty introductions were made,
the fire was blazing,
the smoke drifting,
in our firepit getaway.
Conversations were light,
the stars were ablaze and abundant
and Buddy held his guitar
as if waiting to be asked to play.
And so, we did.
And so, he did.
His strum was soothing,
his voice was oozing
falsetto, baritone, and all other
colors of the musical spectrum.
The minstrel and his guitar,
a perfect time for a perfect evening
at the firepit by the sea.
He strummed and sang,
we sometimes sang too.
We sank down into this simple pleasure.
We were invited in
and we knew that we belonged.
Amy brought out her Zucchini bread.
This morning it was alive
and connected to the vine.
Tonight, it was laced with lemon zest
icing.
We tasted, savored, enjoyed,
as its sweetness lingered on our tongues,
Todd and Brian brought the Cod.
Early that morning,
they dove and speared six large ones.
We each added our contributions,
And we feasted while gathered
‘round the firepit by the sea.
We were invited into this firepit
gathering.
We didn’t have to say much, do much,
Didn’t have to give our life history,
Except ‘where y’all from.’
We were there for the gathering together,
the warmth of the firepit
and the warmth of new friendships.
It was a firepit kind of night,
and we drank deeply
from the openness of the fellowship
and the warming blaze in the firepit.
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