The house at daybreak Stands in its own law Awaiting our arrival As the sun rises and waits. We walk in with the wind That sweeps leaves inside, Moving a door that hangs Like an isosoles triangle. We are children no longer, But someone is walking through rooms Furnished with echoes, Which repeat like a wallpaper pattern. We left decades on carpetless floors And climbed stairways to landings Where we said our good-nights, And returned to run into mornings. The hourglass stands! We are no longer astonished; It is only a prism memory game Caught in a web of fine rain.