Sometimes, at night,when the north wind slams against the houseand downpipes shudder and whistle,I climb steep attic steps to findheart in a blank window.
A spindly chalkmark splitsthe night's black seainto two pools that washtheir water lights against the darkand steep it in reflected depth.
Half in that shining face, half inthe mind's dark gleam,I see a house -- mud hutor boulder-stacked hovel, packed or scoopedfrom stubborn, primal rubble.
A thatched sty, its floor dug outin mean husbandry of warmth and toil,it sits below eye level:door a black hole,slit window in eclipse.
Inside, however, even November'slead sky explodeslike lightningthrough the framed chink --hatch of a starburst, boxed galaxy.
Think of the heartit took to cut that windowwhen a rigging of sticks in the firepitkept death at bay: an age of tamed firecurling in corners, scourge of the cold when thrown
wood scraps, licking up dark with nibbledtallow, but easy preyto a puff of wind.They risked their fireto catch a spark from the sky's wick.
"Eyethurl," the age'sword for window, havingno commerce with the deadly wind:an eyehole drilled through stone to jointhe mind's eye with the sky's.
