Air out the linens， unlatch the shutters on the eastern side，

    and maybe find that deck of Bicycle cards

    lost near the sofa. Or maybe walk around

    and look out the back windows first.

    I hear the view's magnificent： old silent pines

    leading down to the lakeside， layer upon layer

    of magnificent light. Should you be hungry，

    I'm sorry but there's no Chinese takeout，

    only a General Store. You passed it coming in，

    but you probably didn't notice its one weary gas pump

    along with all those Esso cans from decades ago.

    If you're somewhat confused， think Vermont，

    that state where people are folded into the mountains

    like berries in batter. . . . What I'd like when I get there

    is a few hundred years to sit around and concentrate

    on one thing at a time. I'd start with radiators

    and work my way up to Meister Eckhart，

    or why do so few people turn their lives around， so many

    take small steps into what they never do，

    the first weeks， the first lessons，

    until they choose something other，

    beginning and beginning their lives，

    so never knowing what it's like to risk

    last minute failure. . . .I'd save blue for last. Klein blue，

    or the blue of Crater Lake on an early June morning.

    That would take decades. . . .Don't forget

    to sway the fence gate back and forth a few times

    just for its creaky sound. When you swing in the tire swing

    make sure your socks are off. You've forgotten， I expect，

    the feeling of feet brushing the tops of sunflowers：

    In Vermont， I once met a ski bum on a summer break

    who had followed the snows for seven years and planned

    on at least seven more. We're here for the enjoyment of it， he said，

    to salaam into joy. . . .I expect you'll find

    Bibles scattered everywhere， or Talmuds， or Qur'ans，

    as well as little snippets of gospel music， chants，

    old Advent calendars with their paper doors still open.

    You might pay them some heed. Don't be alarmed

    when what's familiar starts fading， as gradually

    you lose your bearings，

    your body seems to turn opaque and then transparent，

    until finally it's invisible——what old age rehearses us for

    and vacations in the limbo of the Middle West.

    Take it easy， take it slow. When you think I'm on my way，

    the long middle passage done，

    fill the pantry with cereal， curry， and blue and white boxes of macaroni， place the

    checkerboard set， or chess if you insist，

    out on the flat-topped stump beneath the porch's shadow，

    pour some lemonade into the tallest glass you can find in the cupboard，

    then drum your fingers， practice lifting your eyebrows，

    until you tell them all——the skeptics， the bigots， blind neighbors，

    those damn-with-faint-praise critics on their hobbyhorses——

    that I'm allowed，

    and if there's a place for me that love has kept protected，

    I'll be coming， I'll be coming too.