The house without windows
sits on a hill
surrounded by meadows,
flowers near the door.
It is surrounded in the shade of summer.
Black smog puffs from its nose.
Perspiration is released from its gutters.
This house lives in solitude.
This house has a latch on its door.
Someday the wind will blow the latch off that door –
and I will be invited inside.
I will paint the walls off – white
and tear a hole big enough to look out
at the dawning of time.
1980s
Anne's mediocre poetry 