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I’ve returned to the back yard

to reintroduce myself to the sandy spurs

creeping between the cement cracks, 

the ripened walnuts scattered on the lawn,

the rustle of maple leaves beneath my  feet, 


to swing open a door in my memory and curl

up in a chair in a room  peppered with books 

stacked beneath windows  that let in sunlight

and shadows of tree limbs resting against 

the gutters. I want to stay here and occupy

the space of honey-glazed conversations 

and cooking smells and strawberry julip

juice dripping from my fingers down into 

the wooden planks on the front porch. 

I want to lodge in the languor of this memory

but my harried life won’t let me stay. 

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