Oh, I see you didn’t sell the cow. Some days a small poem can loom so large I can’t find my way around it. The good stuff exceeds what I can take in.

I’ve noticed the foreshortened climb of the column of stanzas yields a great field reversal. Yes it billows upwards, but the house is also somehow perched, reduced by the distance of great height, in that tiny stanza at the bottom, much as any of your images of tree-tops reflected in a puddle in the dirt.

Pardonnez moi! I’ve broken my intent to only comment when sober…