The air hung on sweetpeas, on that clean sunlight
Tell me again of the detergent, the bare feet on fake linoleum
Nose prints on the glass, holes in the screen door which smelled of dust
Duvets hang heavy on the clothesline, brushing the sweet grass
We live in parallel to the first ones here, a continuation of a song
Like the yellowed hymnal verses in the Baptist church next door
Windchimes sing from the back porch, thin music carried by the breeze
I think they must have always been here
The people here have taught me that love is remembering