The House


by Christopher Raley




What was it came out of the forest?
Was it silt only? And what silt
if not for rain?

I could have said the same for the house
as we came up the drive, van see-sawing
laterally on topographic gravel.
Old windows beneath arched eyebrows
gazed out at the sea
like a benevolent mother
under whose virtue we climbed.

I could have said the same:
if not for forest, if not for storm
if not for fog, if not pines greying
– if not for forest and all rushing
out of it to the cold indifferent ocean,
what house?



©Photo credit: Author


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