The cozy place is out of the way,
Yet not too far that none dare go.
It smells of nuts and pine and sage
Along gravel paths nestled in birch groves.
To the main road not much more
than a stone's throw,
But such a long way to go
If such a measure be
Of the distance in mood, in the pace
as it slows
To a lazy walk, a pacing of tongue
Grown lucid, even subtle,
As the pearls are passed among
The nestlers of the out of the way,
Tables for two or four or more,
It is where we stay, and what we say
And pass the darkest hours of day,
Light the smallest hours of night
In the manner we've grown used to,
In a place we belong we hold court,
Holding each the other in display
The cozy place is out of the way.
© Celeste Plowden 2010