Never made new, only
made over— And so at the end
of the tale, the seeker finds
himself in the basement, in the vault
of an ice fort, somewhere in a remote
valley— In the stillness of a room,
a fire burns: old furniture, parts
of other buildings. Dust motes
make hundreds of shadows but only one
vibrates to the sound of his waking
heart. When he finds his voice, the eaves
drop their long-chiseled burdens. The world
is etched with a flurry of wings, the call
of crows; moaning, laughing, weeping.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
