It is very quiet here--so still   I don't live here--I live down the hill   On this winter's afternoon   The distant sun--it slowly swings the room around   This room hangs on a golden chain   Suspended   Frozen   Frozen in time since you went away       Walking through your rooms I though your things   Fitting--these aren't fingers these are wings   It says April on your calendar   It's winter now--I wonder where you are   I hope it's warm and sunny--or cold and windy   As long as you're fine       Your house is as tumble-down as mine   Crumpled papers everywhere like mine   This one says "I'll write no more"   That one says "don't lock the door"   Writers are a funny breed   I should know       You said someday when we're pure and high   We won't need to capture and describe   The things we see or don't see   We'll let things be   Let things be   That's when you'd leave       And that is why I had to come today   My mad scribbling crumpled, crippled, fey   Tossing words from ledges that erode   From ledges--I am not a goat   I am not a piece of chalk   I just want to do it right like you       And now I stand here in your house   Everything's so still   I wonder if I'll write again   Or let things be   Writers are a funny breed