here’s part of a poem from cynthia rylant’s book, “boris” (#4) [capitalization removed]
“we all need to
come home sometime.
may as well time it
with the winter rain.
for in summer who cares.
we care nothing for
the soft, velvety chair
alongside the reading lamp.
nothing for the warm
down pillows
on our beds.
the hot showers.
the thick robes.
the cocoa.
in summer we love
less our faithful houses
and pledge our allegiance
to willow trees
and hammocks
and full night moons.
poor houses.
waiting patiently
till we finally
appreciate the
roofs that don’t leak,
the doors that don’t squeak,
and the furnace
that works.”
