Sometimes I go back to an old house
and step into a room I've known;
there's a stillness that tends to all,
and the door opens as if nothing's changed.
But then I see that little ray of light
in one corner, or sense something new --
the color of paint, a potted plant
on the sill where we'd never placed one --
and I know: someone or many someones
have come and gone, and this room is time,
and it's never the same, and perhaps
I'm even dead, or so old I can't realize
how much has passed since I called
this room mine, when all the time
it wasn't. Part of me always resides
in these poised moments, places,
believing the lie time stands still,
as in a dream, that in each moment
I see poised, there's a date, a discovery,
something to leap out and save me.
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