Your house sounds like a train at noon:
bees hum, pots sing,
the waterfall catalogues what the soft rain did,
your laugh spins out its trill like a palm tree.
Arriving like a country boy with a singing telegram,
the blue light of the wall talks with the rocks, and there-
climbing the hill, between the two fig trees, with the green voice-
comes Homer in his quiet sandals.
Only here the city has no voice, no mouth, nothing so
relentless, no sonatas, shouts or car horns: here,
instead, a quiet collocation of waterfalls and lions
and you-who rises, sings, runs, walks, bends,
plants, sews, cooks, hammers, writes, returns-
or have you gone away-?- (then I’d know the winter had begun).