Classic Poem

This house is closed to neighbors
open to wayfarers.
A fierce winter has left a gap
in the fence.
Every rainstorm now dislodges
a rock or two,
weakening what's left
of the foundation.
Dawn
glides from its edges and rests,
and suddenly leaves.
Dusk happens, and light
turns inside out in silence
to show its darker, its more
mysterious memories.
This house harbors just a few
who awaken to not so scanty a share
(one veteran of a hard voyage,
a seatamer; and a forest marching out to combat)
their aim to tear off the mask (it was
a rock).
Having erased all the past
each wayfarer walks as if on air
or like a glinting dagger in the dark:
No cry for help
from the side of the road
there is no blood
it has now turned into wine.

They are clay, these wayfarers,
and they'll pass as breezes pass.