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The house is new, built a few years ago, but the way it writes poems you'd never know. The house is a ship, it carries dreams, today it captured shimmering things... I blinked and the hill turned lush with flowers. I'd only opened the door for an hour. In rushed the green air, light for the corners, scent of roses and clover, and the house wrote, I am a summer house... Who would join me here, in the firelight, with rain and smoke, on the edge of night. With wine to drink and tales to spill, and fairy folk drifting over the hill... The house is new built a few years ago, but the way it writes poems you'd never know. The house is a ship it captures dreams, today it captured Halloween. I blinked and the trees on the hill turned russet. I only opened the door for a moment. In rushed the thin air, dark for the corners, the scent of rain and turf smoke, and the house wrote, I am a winter house... But in truth this is a house for all seasons. And Christmas is another wonderful time.
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