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was there
once before
a story unencumbered
a part became of all I know
becoming not the end
of two or more
ten thousand miles
of houses barely standing
weathered paint
and not much more to keep
than hands
together knitted
round a time
was almost lost
where now
the news of leaving
fills the town
with worry for the breaking
and hearts to split apart
nights beyond
the eager reach of sleep
stars were lined
along the sil….
tucked beneath the lace
dreaming not the same
as of you now –
blue the smoke of cedar
rolling down the hill
from places known for stone
and daffodil
would it matter
just how simple
we were then –
when given words
but chosen yet to kiss
before the day a shimmer
of breath
above the still
– a life recalled
could never end
that way

. . .

Author’s Note – A week ago this Sunday, my mother and I took a drive into the ‘old country’, along rivers where once we swam and roads not the same.  We visited the cemetery where so many of my ancestors rest – between a pasture, a (cold cold) river and a valley.  This house stands not far away, near another cemetery.  My mother told me of the people who once lived beneath these aching timbers, when this was majestic place, filled with stories only started and rest far away.