precipitating nostalgia

Rain pelts the old girl,
The tin roof and cold world
That once hailed home.
Late for a roam,
And my brother’s guitar.
We live wherever we are,
But home is a woodstove burning hot,
And songs belted out over a boiling pot
Of cheap, simmering stew
Climbing the stairs when we were through
Sleeping with freezing fingers and toes,
The only warmth anyone knows
Is whatever we can bring
Whatever we can love, or be, or sing.

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