Sometimes I find them
drifting through the house.

They linger in the hall,
obscure a high shelf or valance.

When they part, I half expect
a goat to come bounding down,
or a wayfarer begging alms.

Here and there a village,
warm bricks, a familiar hearth,
old women carding wool
and making bread.

Wheels turning under clouds,
trees and wet green fields,
solemn roads that lead away,
a stranger who somehow
knows my name.

May 24, 2006

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