the little house

there is a house that is no more a house

as for the woods’ excitement over you
that sends light rustle rushes to their leaves
charge that to upstart inexperience.
where were they all not twenty years ago?

then for the house that is no more a house
but only a belilaced cellar hole.

your destination and your destiny’s
a brook that was the water of the house
cold as a spring as yet so near its source
here are your waters and your watering place.
drink and be whole again beyond confusion.

excerpted from "directive" by robert frost