One who watched, leaning upon a fence,

Remembered how he chose this window for a mark

So many times, so long ago,

To guide him through the dark,

And now once more.

He saw the shadowy roof and trees loom high,

The lighted window,

And faint smoke against the sky.

Once more...

Could one word spoken

Open wide the door?

The word grew in his throat,

Slowly - and choked, and lay there broken.

And one who listened heard the little house

Breathe in a half sleep,

Creak, and wait....

Counted the tick of an old clock

That urged, "Late - Late -"

Heard something, call it wind,

Question an open door,

And then the woodfire humming as it burned,

And stillness, as before.

Heard, hand lifted on a page unturned,

As one who listens May,

On the hard road beyond the grass,

Footsteps go away.