Year after year after year
I have come to love slowly
how old houses hold themselves —
before November’ s drizzled rain
or the refreshing light of June —
as if they have all come to agree
that, in time, the days are no longer
a matter of suffering or rejoicing.
I have come to love
how they take on the color of rain or sun
as they go on keeping their vigil
without need of a sign, awaiting nothing
more than the birds that sing from the eaves,
the seizing cold that sounds the rafters.