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  • I liked to slip into the old barn,
    out of the wind
    away from chores,
    winter sun filtered through the dusty skylight
    illuminated the work bench
    a litter of coffee cans bristling with neglected brushes
    squares of bubbly window glass smeared with shades of summer
    a crusted palette,
    and, against the wall,
    landscapes plotted,
    stories waiting to begin.
    Some days I flipped through them
    searching, wondering, who and when and where
    might fill these rooms of memory.

    I slipped out,
    went back to chain saw or spade or ax
    wondering still
    about the path when footprints fade,
    of the wake when the ship has passed.
    Even now when I walk I think of all my landscapes and wonder
    if they still remember me.
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