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This house.
Yes, she lives here—
The one with curls of mousy hair
The table in the parlour, there,
Has but three oak legs
Yet it stands and
There she writes
And thinks all sorts of things
Outside the window sill bloom
Poppies in the spring
They bleed crimson and ebony
And sip the watery sunlight
After the rain has moved along
That’s when she likes them best
In the peace she slices cheese
A Fontina sheer and sweet
And places scales of this joy
On crackers made of wheat
How peaceful here
In this house old
And quietly alone
The dark wood trim
Is carved and thick and stained
With semi-joy
It is the ideal place to be
For none but she owns a key
And simple as the magic seems
It is her place of rest