I’m going outside.
To the house in my heart.
Where a clock finds its time
in tree boughs and light.
Its lintels are above a door
to a maple grove,
with broad bay windows
on a meadow.
Great brown beams lift the ceiling
above its walls,
they have held against wind
and hail,
and only let the sun and rain
enter through their panels
in the sky.
Verandas border the house
letting the air of spring and summer
ventilate the rooms,
and the rooms have murals of
far away hills,
and imaginal stars at night,
and contain or move their walls
according to the space the
heart requires.
The kitchen has the smell of fruit,
the nuance of wines and sauces,
all held on racks of branches
for maximum freshness
and garnishes of color in spring.
The clear, transparent trickling of water
full of mineral flavor
flows on the rocks of the sink.
The furniture throughout the house
is for the weary,
with cushions of grass,
antique carts to sit in,
rock with dimensions to adjust
to your own.
Tables set to the ground
with planks of old pine and walnut,
and demitasse posts for a glass
or can.
Artifacts set here and there
with flawless attention to space and color.
A beautiful house that stays
with time, and changes with the seasons.
A place where the heart heals,
the eyes clear,
and to which the world is invited
any time it wishes.