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.
There are places we hold in memory
where there is no record of having really gone.
Maybe they were only the colicky dream of an infant,
or a precognition of something that could exist, must have
existed somewhere, at some time. Perhaps we have longed for it,
without knowing the way there, except by remembering it in a dream.
?Become a? little child ?now, ?like you ?once were, ?
?g?o ?back ?again to that place that fascinates you: