Out back beneath the junipers,watching the clouds begin to stackand blacken the western sky,I remember a place I used to live,a house with a squeaky floorand stairs that doubled and turned againand a roof that had started to fall.Those were the dayswhen my boys were youngand my young love fierce and wild,days made of wind in a walnut groveand of thick oak logson 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 lovehas yellowed.Down the back of each handruns a vein like a rope.I bend like a leafon a willow.
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