At night I imagined the house

was a great winged bird, fearless,

and I was a feather, lost,

and the bird

flew over cold countryside

looking for me. His shadow

passed above, I knew

dark and light,

and after many days

I understood

his shadow dark upon my life,

he could not find me,

and I cast my bread to winter

and lowered my eyes.

Much later

I knew

he wished it so,

and I rode the wind

to a meadow

and I slept.

Seasons changed.

I could not have back

what I had lost,

so I marched forward

and on the beach I found

a gull, bird-size,

flown out of this life,

and my life too

returned to its proper size,

my house only a house,

my grief, only my grief.