Housekeeping

First, fix your roof.
So, clattering rain can gust and slap the house.
You need to feel the contrast of warm-cozy
as the storm taps its thousand fingernails on the window.
You can't feel it if you are worried about the rain
Seeping, crawling, dripping.
Into the attic and warping the Christmas paper and molding the box of
thin-clothes.

Second, clean out the basement.
Or when you go down to finish the wash or look for the unfindable,
The rotting boxes and rags hardened to the floor will squat in mind,
And the wind can't blow through it.

Third, clean your kitchen counters.
Of toast crumbs and coffee rings and onionskins behind the mixer.
So you can make meals in peace and remember that the sun and oceans
And earth and labor of men and women and death are all part of
your pasta.

Finally, make your bed.
With clean, line dried sheets and rebounding pillows,
And three or four blankets of various textures and comforts,
To be twisted like vines and tossed like waves
In the undulating night.
For the bed is the nucleus, the pulse, the trampoline,
The boardroom, the library, and the nest.
It is the genesis and the fire
of home.