I drove into town this morning.
I saw your house about half past 9.
I took a picture of
our voices in the wind,
our voices louder than the swallowtail,
whispering over the grass,
rustling among the leaves,
robbing the snow of its title to peace and quiet,
our voices more fragrant than the first tulips of spring,
our voices clinging to the rocks like moss,
stronger than death,
more permanent than this house.