What I remember best is standing between two worlds the exile world of my imagination and the cold gray-skied wilderness behind my grandfather’s house while those who lived with their heads over their feet laughed and gossiped inside Later, there’d be music and three kinds of pie My blacksheep uncle Doug was burning leaves in a huge pile the brackish perfume of the Chesapeake mixed with earth’s spice and our silence I remember the oak leaf limned glowing red the fire dancing blue against the golden brown its beauty my desire and reaching for it cupping the beauty in my palms and my surprise at the pain which came on slow and whose imprint I kept secret for thirty-five years a messenger from my future self tracing my palm, whispering: This is how it is Give thanks for all of it
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