house

Snowing softly outside my bedroom window, my room a tangled mass of color and sparkled glints of fabric, books. I am enjoying it today... the muddle and mess... the soft breathing of the things I have collected. I am enjoying them now, as they will be replaced soon enough, by clarity, sparcity, by open plain.

As I was reading the poem below, I found something in it-- something I cannot quite articulate, but that corresponds to me, to my life. Actually it is a shadowy recurring dream that I have sometimes, a dream of a house, the front sort of half-room entrance way (portal) of a dark Park Hill Denver house... It is soft afternoon, and that is all. It is afternoon, and the particles of air have congealed into a dusty thick cloud inside the house. It is afternnon, but it means something, it is quiet as steps on thick plush carpet, but there is a sort of waiting, a hush, that time of day that turns to something else. It is shadowy, dim and mauve grey, warm grey, house thick with upholstered quiet things, layers of rugs on top of carpets, window out to a shady green evergreen shade, cold fragrant shade. I think it is the time of afternoon when the children walk home from school. I have always recognized this place, a feeling of peace in a house, (dim mix with green nostalgia), to be inside looking out through softness, into a gathering dusk-light thick particles of air like stirred pea soup.