Wind the handle for the bucket that knocks at the side,
dislodging moss and brick flakes. See the steam rise
from the chimney. See, in the garden the ducks sploshing
for their sops; willows thriving in the mush; cool water
for washing and drinking, or warmed in the dark like a geyser.
See the beds and chairs and tables and windows, soft
as sponges. See the laundry, never drying, where the web-footed,
wrinkle-palmed husband and the web-footed, wrinkle-palmed
wife are ringing out their babies to hang them in the shade.
***This poem, one in a series of pieces inspired by Bachelard, first appeared in the online supplement to Agenda: Dwelling Places. Time is short today and I haven't enough of it to write anything significant, but I've been meaning to post some of my published work here for a while. Besides, I like this poem and feel sad that it'll probably be buried in Agenda's online archive.