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.