Spoons, knives, and forks
gleaming like real silver
in pristine white holders.
Purple mugs, stored upside
down on the second shelf,
pleasures for eye and hand
and lips within my reach.
Just a cache of shiny baubles,
but laid out in shallow drawers,
they dazzle as in a jeweler’s case.
From the kitchen window,
white-trunked birch trees,
sparsely spangled, gold-leafed.
From the bedroom, living room,
and dining room: panoramas of
mountain tops and valleys,
groves of oaks, deer, red-tailed
hawks, and wild turkeys gawky-
walking, squawking in the street.
Nights of stars, the moon
tom-peeping in our room,
lights in far windows,
fog rising from the valley,
marooning us in solitude.
Dawn lifting the shade of day,
stealing in our bedroom,
slow-waking us with silence,
warmth, and pink-hued light.
Where will I have my tea,
where will I write,
where will I read,
where will I rest,
where will I sleep,
where will I hang my towel
and store my brush?
All that is old becomes new again
as we discover
how we will live
and who we will be
in this new house.
