The House

I wonder if they know how their house looks
From way down here as I run by, 

Threading my line across these hills
The only way that I know how to,

Each step a stitch in the fabric of my time here. 

It’s always a surprise as I crest the last hill

To see it standing up on yet another hill 

Off to the left. It is two-dimsional,

As are the three generations I have seen out in the yard—

House, swing set, people, sky stand atop this hill upon the hill,

Straight out of a child’s drawing, at the edge of the world,

With nothing on the other side- a curtain maybe- blackness- backstage.

And I wonder, too, if they look down at me

What they might see— is it the path I tread, or me?
Or maybe those have become the same thing,
Sewn as I may be into the fabric of the landscape.

When we fade from view, are we in one world, or two?
And do we regain our other dimension again?
Is it only just in each other’s gaze
That we seem to inhabit this imaginary space?

We each tread so lightly in this world in our own way—
One of us to find our way in, the other to escape.