The house stands where the house stood
before bricks, before babies, dividing
day from dark sleep, rumbling from silence.
She was a mother who no longer
carried the water of her motherhood
from the spring in jugs to the kitchen
but instead dipped a cup at a time
for wiping hands and foreheads
under a look stern and gentle from
the father long since having ceased
instructing his sons in how to be
men who do not stop for a moment
while they are awake and responsible.
Connecting with no particular direction
the painted door with the wandering way
through the city and out where so many
purposes are but rocks and stones
fallen, caught and trod upon, defining
the path, older than any of the roots
across it, never having conceived of
straightness. It calls to man and beast
desiring only to be pressed down.