Wallace Stevens left here every morning
to walk to work.
Thirteen stones now delineate his commute.
I started backwards, at the office,
on a Saturday morning in late January,
the world dormant and nondescript.
As I walked,
I passed through successive decades of
changing architectural taste.
Each was briefly
isolated in its moment:
Art Deco; Gothic and Georgian Revival;
some responses to Le Corbusier.
The last snowfall persisted in uneven, blackened heaps
between the houses and the businesses. Soon
some would be made white again.
Up ahead, the Connecticut River,
a big half-frozen current—
in fact it is not a river
but a little stream, Wash Brook.
wealth and green space.
A tree grows through the glass coach
partially buried in someone’s front yard pachysandra.
It is not to be seen beneath the appearances
That tell of it ...
Space-filled, reflecting —
A round window in the gable, like an eye.