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Three Women in White Robes,
with Red Wine

We have a single photo from that night:
fresh from the pool, hair in wet ringlets,
cuddled into identical white robes,
heads tilted together, glasses raised
in a toast to friendship as the sun
sets in a blaze of red behind us.

No one could mistake us for the girls
we were when we met, those wild ones
up north who drank beer from pitchers
and would dance with almost anyone
and rarely saw dawn from the daylight side.

In that photo, it's hard to see our eyes,
set in their thickets of tiny lines. But I remember:
how they still flame with joy and wildness and —
in you, my oldest friends — unquenchable desire.
I know our juice is richer now, more
intoxicating; our laughter is fuller-bodied
now but just as sweet; I understand that we
are growing into fullness just like aging vines.

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