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We returned by arriving,
our habits making way for inhabiting
these rooms with corners not square.

As the season remembers,
first the Maple, then the Oak, 
so the body remembers, 
first the thread, then the cloth. 

A cardinal dives from tree to neighboring shrub, 
claret discord in the opulent green, 
Kudzu, Wisteria, Honeysuckle.

Six windows surround my loom, 
six spliced views of a place unfolding.
I see the same man walk by each morning,
half a man, waist deep, 
behind our perishing stone wall. 

Inside, plaster cracks riddle the room. 
I read them like lines of the palm, 
this house is vital, this room is strong.

Here, the spirit remembers, 
first the return, then we belong.