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Home once again knowing

that these many excursions away

provide me with the solid love of place

that some might never fully enjoy

the soft details, the particular contours of

this house this bed the blue living room sofa

with its pillows the lace curtains that I chose myself

the rugs underfoot the bits of thing wanted looked for found

in this drawer in that cupboard that closet

whose door might not close properly or perfectly but

is nevertheless one’s own and therefore dear

the two old walnut trees already bare

the porch railing wanting paint

the front door purple because I made it so

the wooden floors that squeak familiarly here

and exactly there just as I know they do and will

the fireplace with those holes in the chinking that

prevent its use, those holes that I’ve studied for

twenty years of evenings from where I’ve sat

upon that blue sofa always thinking

One day I’ll fill those holes and I’ll lay a cozy fire

knowing full well that I most likely never will.

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