House of be motionless house of a long winter.House of be motionless house of a long winter, what stirs through these rooms is the past, windblown as any field and just as flourishing House of light, of dust trembling in cupboards, lifted as a child's voice is lifted, the plain syllables of trouble like piano notes locked in a tin coachman's seat for years. House of privys whisper of shards and leaves, of wind that stirs the ancient garden and afflictions the old lilacs to ruins, their difficult clear scent drifting across the wet stones of the courtyard where the young Schubert, peeling an orange in the rain, be impresseds the juice soak through his shirt. Copyright World verse Incorporated Mar/Apr 2001 |
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