When upstate in the mist at a house called The Ledge

        I make the rounds through the magnificent and miniscule

 Always searching for new ways of seeing

   And softness on which to rest my mind,

Maps from those who have gone before me,

  Until I reach the walkway where thousands of feet have tread  the last  hundred years,

Into the home of my beloved friends who have generously made theirs, mine.