Come,

The primrose blooms in the garden.

The mourning dove calls in the sycamore tree.

Rain on the sill of the window,

sounds of every kind of weather

are sweet in this old house.

Come.



In the pantry, jars of beans,

lentils, sunflower seeds. Sesame. Jars

of preserves, small cans

of spices stand in rows.



It is here.

A woman stands in the doorway

and calls. Her apron bleached from washings

and from hanging in the sun. Behind her,

through the doorway, the house

is dark and cool, and word

that she calls into the late afternoon,

into the shadows gathering under the lilacs,

into the long, long shadow of the sycamore tree

is come.

Come home.

It is a kind of love, is it not?
How the cup holds the tea,
How the chair stands sturdy and foursquare,
How the floor receives the bottoms of shoes
Or toes. How soles of feet know
Where they’re supposed to be.
I’ve been thinking about the patience
Of ordinary things, how clothes
Wait respectfully in closets
And soap dries quietly in the dish,
And towels drink the wet
From the skin of the back.
And the lovely repetition of stairs.
And what is more generous than a window?