Some 300 miles between us
there's a town in West Virginia,
where there sits a cozy cottage
with a garden of gardenias,

and a walkway cutting through it
to the door, pale white and wooden,
which is squeaky at the hinges
but still sturdy in the autumn

when the breeze comes blowing swiftly
through the windows, resurrecting
the exquisite scent of cedar 
from the floorboards and the fittings,

while the tender hum of copper
falls cascading from the bottom
of a baby grand piano
in the living room, forgotten

but awaiting our arrival
as the day is turning violet
on our ramble through the forest,
till we happen there to find it.