The sky looks more threatening
than in any painting
and the house that lines my dreams--
the familiar white one,
there on the horizon--
seems inhabited by wind.
Its windows drift open revealing
the glass in their frames.
I'm touched by a cold hand
on the small of my back.
The house responds with creaking.
The snow on the roof
is all I'm sure of.
I let the table remain set with wine glasses.
I'm waiting for an important guest.
It's all too old a dream to worry me--
the stairs creaking,
the windows sliding open,
the Chinese shrubbery
watching through the terrace doors.