There is a puddle of violets
Behind a house in the snow
It is a hallucination
It is a coming home
The boards of the house
Now, they are filled with wind
They are soaked in rain
The carpet is a brand-new moss one
If there’s any ink left, let it run
A field approaches the house
And tries to engage it by wind
Through the yellow wild grasses
It goes like love mist through the curtains
Still dancing in broken windows
Oh, you have made no mistake
Says the wind to the house as a lover
But the empty house weeps like a sinner

Cheering Note

If you are drawn to the desolate places
vibrant emptiness
circle of quarried stones or unmade rocks
don’t feel bad
There are noble precedents for being so alone
In order to hear your unname
To be unmade
To be of the thing you are
Before you were born

Before you came here to sulk