Out back beneath the junipers,
watching the clouds begin to stack
and blacken the western sky,

I remember a place I used to live,
a house with a squeaky floor
and stairs that doubled
and turned again
and a roof that had started to fall.

Those were the days
when my boys were young
and my young love fierce and wild,
days made of wind in a walnut grove
and of thick oak logs
on the fire.

Drop by if you like and visit me now.
It’s halfway into October.
The sycamore leaves have begun to turn,
and my fierce young love
has yellowed.

Down the back of each hand
runs a vein like a rope.
I bend like a leaf
on a willow.

 

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