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Poem

Not sure yet, I slowly turn to the sound of a familiar voice. 
Yours maybe?
It has been three years since the social dance of co-workers and mingling - inevitable small talk. 
Three years ago, this was a not so foreign path. 
Is it too much all at once?
These long office corridors can be home
versus the long, dreadful, hours spent at home
the winter months are not the worst - June, July and August are the culprits.  
They drag - like an old train chugging past. 
Whistling in the wind.
My life is not a rundown railroad train.
dodging my own shadow, I spent what seemed like lifetimes, watching the sun slouch across the carpet.
Seated at a round table, they laugh in the crowded cafe. 
Alert yet apart, I will blend in like a chameleon, like a flower in a vase I will arrange myself to bend with my fellow flowers. 
We will all bloom and it will all be glorious.

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