The grain of the exposed boards

Speaks through the wall of the years

We are back in our cottage

On the wind-swathed hills

Watching late winter dawns

Gather like kindled flame.

We are back with those winter dusks, –

The hyaline air hung in darkness

And a vale of stars, waking in blankets

Laid on bare boards, making a fire

From our dreams.

We are walking through mist

On snow-skirled roads, taking turns

On a swing in a deserted park,

Hearing the rhythmic clank

Of dripping links.

Again I see your smile

I have missed the long years since

Touching your fingertips

Before our exhausted sleep.

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