The Sand Hill Review               http://www.sandhillreview.org 2008

In This At Last May Sun, The House

Passing from you, what life was that?  what lives

whose bare feet raced over the sloped oak floor?

Tilted, the earth’s unstable near the creek

our neighbor wildness, rushing off to keep

her covenant with the godwitted tide—

to pluck the salted worm or perfect snail.

You’ve begun leaving.  The bead board, the plain

brass lock and tray ceilings not calling out,

Stay.  Stay.  There’s no telling how lovers come

undone.  Step now into this at last May

room and taste its particular sourgrass,

reckoning every element of white

pear blossom.  Nothing will, they will not last

more than an instant, knowing this:  Here.  Home.

Elizabeth Chapman