Cradling the corner, humping the hill br skimming to the bottom of Prospect Hill br a twinkling bell at the door br invites us in at Annie’s Antique Store. br br Just looking we said br at dressers, chairs, and beds br br Brushing against edges of long ago br waking snuggled reveries br of what use to show br br we cross the line trading memories. br How things have changed from times ago br of ours and hers on the farm. br So many things have lost their charm: br br walking to school in all kinds of weather br milking cows I never did but Annie was a pro br working in gardens and with green tobacco br our close encounters with two mother cows br br she a child when only three knocked down br by the one with a hooked right horn br br yet later fearlessly shackling the legs br of old Bessie who kicked her milkers br br Wouldn’t want to do those thing today. br The old days were not as good as we say. br br We bought a print of Birman kittens br for three dollars or so. br br They all have paws of white you know. br br I asked Annie if she had milking hands. br She opened them for me to see; br didn’t cost me a cent br br Some people are paintings yet to be.