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Carpenter's Child

Like me and my body,
there are traces of your maker
pressed into the smooth lines
of your woodgrain; the child
of an unrestrained imagination,
you are nautical and mountain-born 
in form, yet stand among suburban
gardens like any drywalled home 
along this crooked road. 

I don't believe in ghosts, but I can feel
the history of four generations
hidden in the careful detail of the wood and tile,
the beautiful shape of hanging lights,
the thoughtful frame of your little rooms,

which I know would tell me everything
in time. I want to let your mind
meet mine, to lean on your staircases
and ladders until I know the 
patterns of you by heart;

I want to sleep on your floors 
and wake by your wide windows
until I open eyes to a brighter world -
but perhaps you've lived too long 
for that, and I too little. Perhaps 
after some time I'll 

find myself a younger sister of yours,
whose wooden walls and
narrow doorways still have room 
for my own memory
to fill.
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