Matt MacFarland
To fill the drawing studio with broken light,
the famous architect made the ceiling
ragged as the fabric of tree limbs.
His students would not forget the labor of wind
through branches, the gift of tossing shadow.
What we cannot know is whether he carried in his pocket
a frayed Collected Works of the ancient Welsh poet
whose name he gave to the house, which juts softly
from a hill in southern Wisconsin.
Which dog-eared pages would he break the spine for?
Were there lines that entered his flesh like thorns?
For example: The mountain has become crooked, the woods
have become a kiln. This doomful sort of insight
accommodates our pressing concerns,
he might say. He would forgive loose translations:
The earth has changed its shape, the forest coughs at night.
The Appalachians have been shorn, fire warps the trees.
The flatlands are full of slurry, our tap is full of propane.
When the famous architect considered his beloved
curtains of icicles, draped like giant bougainvillea from the roof,
his eyes were wet with admiration.
He installed no gutters, no paths for snow.
His students observed how the hill and house would erode.