House of String
Without hammer or nail, without planed plank, I will build a house of string.
One airy room to live in. String walls, string ceiling that lets the light shine in.
A place to spend the hours where no clocks ever tick. Mine alone. Or ours.
O who can understand? O who? How I have hungered for the unbuilt, the unimagined.
How a piece of string trailing me in a long line wherever I go, can be
a sheltering abode, a dwelling place that is not a place at all. Come, let us go there now
and sip the tea that is neither sweet nor bitter, listening all the while to the crickets
singing. Or not singing. Safe in its flimsy walls, we will sleep the sleep
we have always dreamt of sleeping, rain saturating our dreams, red leaves
at the door signaling a final fall where all becomes nothing, nothing all, where, as soft snow
begins to fall, one of us will stay and one will go, walking away from everything
we know, casting a glance back to a house filling up with snow, wondering,
O who is the lost one? Who? The sleeper coldly covered over? Or the coatless one who leaves
no tracks, who stumbles in the snow?