Less like an eggshell than a tourniquet.

Outside it: all that made the winds so knowing.

Inside it (being just a house): just she.

She remembered rain; and summers; and centuries.

That door in those days meant so much to her

It frightened her the time its slamming breeze

Fluttered her blouse as if it knew of breasts.

Then she drew subtler pressures to her, softer

Bruises by lolling cool on flames of grass.

Kicking her shoes off, careless where they landed,

She spread her toes as wide apart as ducks do

To let the wind-webs through that never came.

When pairs of vermin-wildness serenaded

With wooden grunts, her porch stayed free and airy;

Stayed paceable as cake-like castle-walls

To which all hoof-beats soar that never come.

Until one day they came.