Caught in the bright eye of encroaching sun, <br />The music falls in windfalls of white fog. <br />Bird feather tracings of suggested flight <br />Hone moments to the sharpness of pale skies. <br /> <br />Hands interlace across a hobnailed cup. <br />Gray windows mirror a century of warmth. <br />The shabbiness of day is beautiful. <br />We take a picture of it with our hearts. <br /> <br />The old house rides on morning like a boat. <br />Indifferent to the turbulence of trees, <br />It crests the dawn with dignity intact, <br />And rests becalmed on seas of goldenrod.<br /><br />Sandra Fowler<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-old-house-rides-on-morning/
