The Barrens

North Atlantic wind tries
to tear the roof off the hill,
throws all the sea’s abrasives at it,

but the tuckamore grew up
in this house, body shaped
by the timeless occupation

of a back bent low, hands
in the dirt, working
at the fasteners.

It’s hard to think of anything
more modestly and completely
successful. A forest

of white spruce and balsam fir
centuries old and three feet tall,
its villages of cubbyhole, attic,

and lean-to are home
to the vulnerable thrush,
to the vole who bounces

on its bedsprings, rabbits
lose their keys in its alleys,
even sheep find a nave

in which to say
their panicked rosaries
in a storm; it is you

who are most definitely
not to scale.
All around in the low halls

hurricane lamps are being lit.
To look in the windows
you will have to crawl.