Forgot your password?

We just sent you an email, containing instructions for how to reset your password.

Sign in

  • 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.
    • Share

    Connected stories:

About

Collections let you gather your favorite stories into shareable groups.

To collect stories, please become a Citizen.

    Copy and paste this embed code into your web page:

    px wide
    px tall
    Send this story to a friend:
    Would you like to send another?

      To retell stories, please .

        Sprouting stories lets you respond with a story of your own — like telling stories ’round a campfire.

        To sprout stories, please .

            Better browser, please.

            To view Cowbird, please use the latest version of Chrome, Safari, Firefox, Opera, or Internet Explorer.