I can imagine， years from now， your coming back

    to this high， old， white house. “Home” I shouldn‘t say

    because we can‘t predict who’ll live here with a different name.

    How tall the birches will be then. Will you look up

    from the road past the ash for light in the study windows

    upstairs and down？ Go climb the black maple¹ as first

    in new sneakers you walked forty feet in air

    and saw the life to come. Don‘t forget the cats.

    Because you grow away from a house， no matter how much you

    come back，

    if the people you love are elsewhere， or if the reason is，say，

    nostalgia²， don‘t worry about small changes or lost names.

    Sit down for a minute under the tallest birch. Look up

    at the clouds reflected in the red barn‘s twisted window.

    Lean on the wall. Hear our voices as at first

    they shook the plaster³， laughed， then burned in the dry air

    like a wooden house. I imagine you won‘t forget the cats.