When the house of flesh disappears
in an earthquake of its own making,
this house of wood and glass
will stay fixed in its landscape.
Rooms will be swept clean
of all memories. Doors will close.
Even the animal graves out back
will forget who planted the bones
and whether the flowering cherry was a sign
of mourning or renewal.
This house will continue to rest
on its wide floorboards, somnolent
under its heavy eaves. Generations
will come and go. Someone will surely
notice how the sun slants through
the small eastern window,
a blade of light each morning,
and spreads like a cat stretching
against the western panes of glass
each afternoon. The house
we built will enter
the dreams of other people,
and they too will simply be tenants
of their own brief moments here.
I know all this. But to acquiesce
is never easy. It is to love the unwritten future
almost as well as the fading past.
It is to relinquish the vanity of names
which are already disappearing
with every cleansing rain
from the stooped and rusting mailbox.
Originally Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 2.
