A New House

Gradually, the light increases in the room where I sit,

hands hovering over computer keys, waiting

for words. A white birch, bent and only slightly broken

by the recent ice storm, filters that light. Beneath this tree, 

green grass surfaces,and clusters of day lily stalks pierce 

melting snow like porcupine quills. Bird feeders—

brown, red, white, wooden, plastic, brass—sway gently.

I imagine myself everywhere—in these gardens, 

the potting shed,walking the winding stone path. 

This is the house wheremy husband and I 

will finish our story together.

Just sitting in this room makes me smile.

The feeling of not knowing rejuvenates me.

Slowly, I gather my surroundings like a net—

Vince, my 80-something neighbor;

the dentists whose clients come and go

past the Taylor Junipers along my driveway;

and Carol, now, nearing 90, roaring past

in her hot yellow mustang convertible,

top-down until late November.

For these new-to-me neighbors

and for the blackness of the winging crow

and the darting flight of the chickadee,

the memory of the ice-encased woods,

the sunlight on gently sloping lawn

and the patter of rain on sky lights,

for all that makes me, as I near 62, feel young again—

deep gratitude. My voice echoes

as I read this poem in this almost-empty room.