Who planted the seed that made me want
to build a house: a home, a shelter 
from which to window a life—
And who taught me to want 
the little graces that come like light
through the blinds; that stack on shelves,
that hold the simple bread of mornings
and the broth of night after deepening
night? Whoever it was, or whether 
circumstance merely sharpened this
blade I arrived in the world with, I was
ripe with longing before I was even aware—
its varying tastes fill my mouth: its vintage,
rounded or roughed with the years. 

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