Always in transit1
we were always temporarily
in exile，
each new place seeming
after a while
and for a while
our home.
Because no matter
how far we traveled
on the edge of strangeness
in a small county，
the earth ran before us
down red clay roads
blurred2 with summer dust，
banked with winter mud.
It was the measurable，
pleasurable earth
that was home.
Nobody who loved it
could ever be really alien.
Its tough clay， deep loam3，
hill rocks， small flowers
were always the signs
of a homecoming.
We wound down through them
to them，
and the house we came to，
whispering with dead hollyhocks
or once in spring
sill-high in daisies，
was unimportant.
Wherever it stood，
it stood in earth，
and the earth welcomed us，
open， gateless，
one place as another.
And each place seemed
after a while
and for a while
our home：
because the county
was only a mansion4
kind of dwelling5
in which there were many
rooms.
We only moved from one
room to another，
getting acquainted
with the whole house.
And always the earth
was the new floor under us，
the blue pinewoods the walls
rising around us，
the windows the openings
in the blue trees
through which we glimpsed，
always farther on，
sometimes beyond the river，
the real wall of the mountain，
in whose shadow
for a little while
we assumed ourselves safe，
secure and comfortable
as happy animals
in an unvisited lair6：
which is why perhaps
no house we ever lived in
stood behind a fence，
no door we ever opened
had a key.
It was beautiful like that.
For a little while.
