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what share would I give
of a life fully lived
another life to recall
arms reaching out
from the shadows –
words cut short
by the fall

a house settled back
on the edge of a wood
smoke in the air
in my eyes
steps from my watch
at the window –
dawns a familiar

would e’er creation
remember me whole
to places I loved long ago
memories tease
at the edge of my reaching
of something
I already know

Author’s Note: Of those who know me well, a few know me better. They know of the house that has been a part of my dreams since I was a child. As of late, they come less frequent (I have a theory on that) but still. I’ve never been there, and yet I know it, and could find it if chance put me within a mile or two. I know the steps from the porch to the fence, the soft old rose print of wallpaper in the smallest bedroom, the way the wind howls through the trees at night. A dear friend who I shared my stories with once commented that she and I should take a trip in search of ‘the house’. “I’m sure it’s near here, and we could find out who actually lives there.” I froze. She didn’t understand at all. “I live there.”

In another life. I am in the kitchen as morning climbs the steps.  I dance beneath a faded bulb, and worry not for sleepless nights in which I am lost (I am found).  I love.

But in this life, in those moments that reach my soul, I pause. I place my hand against a window, upon someone’s heart. I close my eyes (a snapshot) and whisper “remember this”. ❤

. . .