Houses

Houses

Ice houses light

in crystal fingers,

dying light

and waking light.

At the foot of our tall house

front of our shrubs,

the last ice

of winter waits

where shadow hides it from the

spring sun.

My neighbors agree

in silence

upon a day to rake away

the part of autumn caught beneath

the snow.

quiet in their mouths, in the

shadow of hats,

of scarves,

sweatshirt hoods.

They scrape back the mulch down to

soft, new blades--- young pelage.

Our house,

old spinster,

straightens her spine,

tells, in the hollow of her apron,

the story of eighty winters melted.