The smell of moss that's just been touched by rain
Reminds me always of my parents' home;
The hidden house that runs against the grain,
Entered from the side, its fertile loam
Utterly grassless, with a few tall trees
Emerging from the lichen on the ground,
Its windows shuttered 'gainst the western breeze
That, broken, slowly blows from Puget Sound.
I think of setting forth beyond the gate
Seeing the broken pavement bent by roots,
The saddle-hill that drops off to the lake
And wondering if I'm already late
To catch the bus--or if its twisting routes
Have slowed it to the pace that I can make.
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