But those of memory.
Yet how much room for memory there is
In the loose girdle of soft rain.
For the letters of my mother’s mother,
That have been pressed so long
Into a corner of the roof
That they are brown and soft,
And liable to melt as snow.
Steps must be gentle.
It is all hung by an invisible white hair.
It trembles as birch limbs webbing the air.
Old keys that are but echoes:
Is the silence strong enough
To carry back the music to its source
And back to you again
As though to her?"
Through much of what she would not understand;
And so I stumble. And the rain continues on the roof
With such a sound of gently pitying laughter.