Only a house quiet as snow, a space for myself to go, clean as paper before the poem.
Not a flat. Not an apartment in back. Not a man's house. Not a daddy's. A house all my own. With my porch and my pillow, my pretty purple petunias. My books and my stories. My two shoes waiting beside the bed. Nobody to shake a stick at. Nobody's garbage to pick up after.
不是小公寓。也不是阴面的大公寓。也不是哪一个男人的房子。也不是爸爸的。是完完全全我自己的。那里有我的前廊我的枕头，我漂亮的紫色矮牵牛。我的书和我的故事。我的两只等在床边的鞋。不用和谁去作对。没有别人扔下的垃圾要拾起。
只是一所寂静如雪的房子，一个自己归去的空间，洁净如同诗笔未落的纸。
