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18 TOUCHING HOME When I returned they were burning the field. Now the first snow stammers in, A thin gleaming on the weeds where quail chitter And thin cats scurry between barns. I sit with the hay-shed door swung open Listening as chipmunks hoard seeds Beneath the rough-cut floor, return To the field left fallow a long time. I came here with what I knew of love, With what remained of me. There will be this week of gentle snow Then full winter. In late spring This field will be tilled under By fresh hands eager to make this farm Their life. I begin gathering Mounds of old hay and building a hump Of white smolder outside the door As the ash gentles down on the snow, As I breathe in the air of what has come to pass, The potential of going forth once more. ...

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