Hidden, oh hidden <br />in the high fog <br />the house we live in, <br />beneath the magnetic rock, <br />rain-, rainbow-ridden, <br />where blood-black <br />bromelias, lichens, <br />owls, and the lint <br />of the waterfalls cling, <br />familiar, unbidden. <br /> <br />In a dim age <br />of water <br />the brook sings loud <br />from a rib cage <br />of giant fern; vapor <br />climbs up the thick growth <br />effortlessly, turns back, <br />holding them both, <br />house and rock, <br />in a private cloud. <br /> <br />At night, on the roof, <br />blind drops crawl <br />and the ordinary brown <br />owl gives us proof <br />he can count: <br />five times--always five-- <br />he stamps and takes off <br />after the fat frogs that, <br />shrilling for love, <br />clamber and mount. <br /> <br />House, open house <br />to the white dew <br />and the milk-white sunrise <br />kind to the eyes, <br />to membership <br />of silver fish, mouse, <br />bookworms, <br />big moths; with a wall <br />for the mildew's <br />ignorant map; <br /> <br />darkened and tarnished <br />by the warm touch <br />of the warm breath, <br />maculate, cherished; <br />rejoice! For a later <br />era will differ. <br />(O difference that kills <br />or intimidates, much <br />of all our small shadowy <br />life!) Without water <br /> <br />the great rock will stare <br />unmagnetized, bare, <br />no longer wearing <br />rainbows or rain, <br />the forgiving air <br />and the high fog gone; <br />the owls will move on <br />and the several <br />waterfalls shrivel <br />in the steady sun.<br /><br />Elizabeth Bishop<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/song-for-the-rainy-season/
