I would climb the wooden stairs to the attic
where I had set up the porch glider
I'd found in the basement
with its flaked pea-green paint
and vinyl cushions covered with cotton sheets
and sit there
and read
and write
and doze
sometimes in eighty-five degree heat.
From there I could see
the garage and blacksmith shop
chicken coop, grape arbor
flower and vegetable gardens.
From there I could keep things
in perspective.
That place was whatever I wanted it to be
and it stayed that way
through my fiftieth year
when the things that change with time changed
and I sold it
with its pocketfuls of memories.
