I saw the gracious windows of our house
like two eyes that manifest its soul,
the sycamores we planted are godparents,
the homestead looking happy on the whole.
Certain houses get along without us
when others adopt them for their own.
The sound of children’s slippers in the hallway—
shouldn’t that be our memory alone?
And time should have frozen in the doorway,
a grandfather clock that’s left unwound.
It seems to me the house should not be smiling
or the smell of fresh cut grass anoint the ground
while someone else is racing down the hill
and chasing the elusive fireflies.
The creaky floorboards—they should be our creaks,
the wind through the maple tree our sighs.
Would I rather see musty shingles and
wood eroded by the ruin of age—
or shouldn’t I be glad it’s still glowing
though time has erased us from the stage?
