Closer to the Ground

All night
the roof moaned.

The door shook,
the window rattled.

When morning came
I went outside.

The house
looked closer to the ground than yesterday.

One person.
One horse.

Both
keeping low.

I came back to the room
and painted that house.

Along the roof
I drew a line.

The line
went slanting.

I
corrected it, made it straight.

I stepped back
a pace.

It was not the house
I had seen that morning.

I tilted
the line again.

The low roof
came back.

I held the brush
a little loosely.

Scraped.
Pushed.

The line
wavered.

I
did not grip the brush tight again.

Over the low roof
one slanting mark
passed, long.