you are clear across this beaming country
  smiling in the Great Plains
  crying from the Great Lakes
and you sift through sugar packets
  in a diner named daytime
asking and asking
  for the sweetest one

and the filthy snow of Maine
is drying into
the leafy gutters of the Carolinas
                         and Washington is singing
                         over to Idaho
to get out into the springtime
and dance in the rain
(which always comes without
any warning    at all.)

I sit here alone
  in a house that proudly claims
  that it is a hundred years old
    with creaky staircases
    and loose hinges
that choose the most silent times
                                to speak.
And find that indeed
I love the differences
between California and the newest of Englands

one is sweet and wooden and old
like a crackling record
     lilting and laughing
     and loving its music
     and one is a warm day
found in the month of March
that licks the dullness
off of our skin
and allows California
to peer right in.

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