art
Whoever enters the home of a poet / Does not know that the furniture has power over him / That each knot of wood holds / More birdcalls than all the woodland heart /And that it is enough that a lamp curves its womanly neck / Against a polished corner as evening falls / To suddenly let loose a thousand cities of bees / And the smell of fresh bread from the cherry trees in flower / Because such is the happiness of this solitude / That one tender brush of the hand brings back / To these great dark taciturn chairs and tables / The lightness of a tree in the morning.
