The whole house turns to look
when you open the door.
Nothing gleams or sparkles.
No breathtaking view peeks
through the windows.
But everything glows, just a little,
in the late afternoon sun—
your shaggy yard and
well-intentioned garden, your
dusty floors and
dishes waiting in the cupboards.
Inside you all
something shifts and settles down.
The couch gives a contented sigh
when you put down your suitcase.
Puff Of Smoke Poems 