Love Letter to a Large Cottage


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.