I am sitting at my ancient desk
gathering wild strawberries into tin buckets.
The memories
are bigger than my thumbs
but the poems
always seem to come out smaller.
I wish you could have tasted the pine trees
whisked about by summer winds.

Past the curtains at my window
I see them sway and bob,
those trees
five hundred miles away; 
I marvel that they’re even sweeter
than they were yesterday.

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