A House Breathes Through Its Bones
A house breathes through its bones,
Its summits sit like sentries;
Though rafters decompose-
It never denies entry.
Its ghosts lie in their beds,
Soft earth beneath their memory;
The shutters firmly closed-
The past seen only dimly.
Dryad of the tangled forest,
Where do you hide your instruments?
You know the clouds see your nakedness,
And the moon, your coquetry.
But why should you sleep all alone-
Except, you do not sleep;
Up at any hour, playing away
Songs that the mortals cannot hear,