This House
by Robert Creeley
Such familiar space
out there, the window
frame’s locating
focus I could
walk holding
on to
through air from
here to there,
see it where
now fog’s close
denseness floats
the hedgerow up
off apparent ground,
the crouched, faint
trees lifting up
from it, and more
close down
there in front
by roof’s slope, down,
the stonewall’s conjoining,
lax boulders sit,
years’ comfortable pace
unreturned, placed
by deliberation and
limit make their
sprawled edge. Here
again inside
the world one thought of,
placed in this aged box
moved here from
family site
lost as us, time’s
spinning confusions
are what
one holds on to.
Hold on, dear house,
‘gainst the long hours
of emptiness, against
the wind’s tearing force.
You are my mind
made particular,
my heart in its place.