I probably won’t ever leave this place,
where light is soft as Paris, clear as height,
where morning breeze is slick against my face,
my chin is cool, and green expands my sight.
I’ll never move away from here, unless
the population mounts out of control:
too much to tolerate if traffic stress
and pressured voices overwhelm my soul.
I’ll leave unwilling if I leave at all,
except I may find latitude to play
should I abandon crowds. If I from sprawl
pick altitude, exported far away
from ocean’s breath – perhaps I’ll alter my
address, to somewhere private high and dry.
I dwelt inside a draftsman’s wooded dream.
A spirit-cradling cottage sheltered me
that hunkers in the elbow of a stream
that serenades its shaded property.
Forever I’ll remember when I found
the house and walked into its grained embrace.
As soon as I beheld its oaken ground
I felt like I’d come home. I gained a place
that knew me, like it waited patiently
asleep for me to find or rediscover
security. Then I could let it be
my friend, protector, confidant and lover.
Perhaps I lived there in another life,
but if the place were male I’d be its wife.
To me and maybe you as well, a house
is often used as metaphor for mind.
No matter it’s in Monterey or Taos
or Tulsa, Flint or Madison – behind
the doors, beneath the roof, there’s either mess
or decent order, cheeriness or gloom,
an urge to clean that earns the word “obsess,”
a separate formal (unused) dining room…
So vital is our residence, we might
as well be monkeys biding in a tree,
confining us for safety’s sake all night
to barely moving anything. You’re free
I think to live the way you deem is best,
provided you don’t soil your own nest.