And what would it have meant,
to own a country home
with windows looking out into great trees,
and rooms within filled with old, inherited things?

Would it have been a refuge
from the angels swooping low and terrifying?
Or better is it to wander, homeless,
tower to castle, driven onward by a great

beating of wings, to shelter in forests,
in glades of deep imagining, 
and to hear but distantly the tolling of bells?
The comfort of the soft-needled earth!

Wind turns the trees, leaves fly down,
and the forest path leads upward and upward….