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.