A farm, my parents’ friends had;
I went there as a kid –
It’s been a half a century
Since we did what we did

And memories of hay lofts
And early morning sounds
Come drifting back to me, as though
From very distant grounds –

For I six years old, then,
And all was new, and fair:
It is still new, in memory,
Though now in disrepair

For we have two worlds, always:
The one that’s here – and real —
And one that stays within us,
And guides the way we feel

For poetry and memory
Have this one thing they share:
They each can build a wondrous world
That isn’t really
There