Year after year after year
I have come to love slowly
how old houses hold themselves -
before November's drizzled rain
or refreshing light of June -
as if they have all come to agree
that, in time, the days are no longer
a matter of suffering or rejoicing.
I have come to love
how they take on the color of rain or sun
as they go on keeping their vigil without need of sign,
awaiting nothing more
than the birds that sing from the eaves,
the seizing cold that sounds from the rafters.