The Temporalities

Myron H. Broomell

In the mountains the houses neither age nor die.
The paint, the wood, are neither new nor old.
White is not brilliant against winter sky
Nor moss-green loud against a tree in gold.
Nor are they shabby, either, where wind washes
The bone-dry clapboards and the flaking sashes.

As I came around the corner of one such,
Suddenly that was where there is no time.
It had tough grass in the dooryard, but not much,
And one thin vine that would not die nor climb
With a slight breathing I could outlive the brave
Or say Hi! to my grandsire forty years in his grave.