From Within a House
From Within a House
From these eaves hang the fangs of icicles,
But this house can be forgiven for being
Defensive, like those old dogs that, half-blind
And half-deaf, only half-see and half-hear
Everything that comes near. The house bares
Its teeth at the aspens, which are always white,
But have turned whiter now out of fear.
The youngest of them are too young
To remember the sudden bark that was
The old man killing himself, but the mountains
Were here, they remember. Soon the March sun
Will soften the dripping points, and the fangs
Will shrink into the upper jaw, and the aspens
Will be white not because they’re afraid
But because that’s the color aspens are.