Sojourn in the Country

Marcia Lee Masters

My country cottage with its fluted roof,
          Lime-colored, papery, like a lace-edged shelf,
          Stands high and lonely on a weedy bluff
          Where no one comes or goes except myself.
          Within the mustard walls the crickets sing,
. And drafts make furtive eddies at my head.
          I lie and watch an agile spider swing
          Upon his frail trapeze above my bed.
          Though never quite so desolate, I thrive
          On frost and wretched lamps, and feel secure
          To be where trees and grass are thick and live
          And even weeds are niched where they endure.
          Here in this moss-green twilight, steeped with dew,
          Is all the peace there is, except with you.