Which room in a house
is the most important room?
Which room in the soul
deserves a lock,
an open door,
the sound of the world
coming through its walls?
I opt for the kitchen,
for the firm counter,
the window looking on a garden or sea,
the table rubbed with oil,
its brown grain sweet with sap,
the hard firmness of summer,
the humidity of August and roses.
In the soul
I prefer the room without a ceiling,
where the sun comes through the thatch,
the hovering humility of fog,
the wide scan of the Milky Way,
a tapestry showing the battle
of infinity with time.
A room covered with pictures
of the future and past,
a chair to have tea,
a place for a fire,
to make music and hear my voice
resonate from corners.
But it would not be a kitchen,
a room for berries, and sausages,
and bread.
It would be a place of ungoing,
of being nowhere
to be everywhere,
where I could think
and not concern myself,
leave or stay forever.
It is perhaps a choice of mood,
of where color goes and lies in purity,
a room making itself into a haven,
a place where we breathe easily,
and feel the world
become a planet for a moment,
to inhabit and love,
and be somewhere by ourselves,
or with others.