Because I only remember the place in summer,
it will never be the same, revisiting
arrangements of wood and stone,
angled balconies, shuttered windows –
the histories I thought to decipher
by running my fingers against the grain.
Too cold for that now. And the trees
have sharpened for winter,
thinned along a softened horizon.
What’s fixed here’s illusion seen
in different weather, affirming the old thought
