North-Looking Room

In a seldom-entered attic
you force a balky door,
disclosing a room made brilliant
by an orange tree whose branches bear


no fruit but maple leaves;
We’re in New England, after all.
Though rippling foliage fills
the pane, the flush that tints the wall


will last a week or two, no more.


*

And this conception, if consoling,
of a high, untenanted room
lit solely by a tree
houses as well–at least for those


who’d sidestep round the fear
that in the give-and-take of calls
to answer, calls to make,
we lose the light most dim, most clear—


a reprimand no breeze can shake.