Impressions

You think it's him standing beside
his booth of assorted objects
speaking with another man as you
walk by, then return. You've only
met him once before and then briefly
but there was warmth, the kind that
kindles between kindred spirits. You
ask how he has been and he peers
at you before recognition sets in
and he moves to hug you, and you
shift slightly. He appears as though
the past winter was difficult, as
though he shrank in height, and he
is most certainly dishevelled, long
grey/white hair stringy, but the
creases around his eyes and his
mouth deserve that hug. And you
speak together, as the crowds mill
about and past, peering at the wares,
asking about his health, his brother's
and of course the things that really
matter to him, for this man of 85
is a master gardener, an artist in 
his own right whose skills are widely
recognized in avant garde circles
which you don't yourself inhabit.
He invites you to return to his farm
for a visit; isolated, adjacent a forest
where you saw the most enchanting
garden ever, never to be forgotten
but you demur, and you move -- on.