To the Book of Faces I Return

When I first embarked upon the pages of this Book of Faces, 
I found a surfeit of daily reportage upon the days’ rhumba and zooma; 
a catalogue of travelogues and epicurean delights
(including the ingredients of exemplary porridge, tea tales and
Odes to the virtues of kale) and the frequency of java consumption. 

As I delved deeper, there were sprinkled throughout,
occasional thimbles filled with the clash and dash
of slashing wits pitted against dullards each armed
with crossing swords smashed over creased domes;
invective hurled upon the battlefields of demagoguery and ideology.
To this arena, I gleefully entered, tossing roiling pebbles
upon formerly calmed waters. 

As the seasons rolled by (as seasons invariably do),
the reasons for these singular vignettes grew
increasingly thin, tiresome and wearisome until I was forced to concede,
“Whew! This is more than a little rootie- tootie!!”
So, on hiatus I did go.

Where, following a respite, I reconsidered once more all these faces
and found revealed therein glimpses of a mosaic, a tapestry,
woven from the communal threads of whole lives
in equal measure, scope, proportion and dimension
to those of any tragic Homeric odyssey or Simpsonian farce.
And I found that I was missing all the best stuff like well wishes and
“Attaboys” and “hang in there’s” and
“you’re right, I’m left, we’re gone” and let’s not forget, “Happy Birthday!”
So I return once again, to peruse the good times and the sad
never ever to leave this books of faces again.