At the top of the long hill, along
a long street that drops off into the canyon
on one side; my mother's house droops
to one side after years of termites
and no time for duty to a personal life.
Uninsulated and combative the house
resists change as an abrupt transformation,
preferring slow evolution into sawdust
and lead pipes, clothing and postcards
never sent. Insulated and apart, the house
where I grew up becomes a stranger
and darker house where time has passed
away, blown by the wind, breathing
life into the world around it;
leaving the house alone darkened.
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