The Temporalities

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.