Something There Is That Doesn't Love a Clean House

with apologies to Robert Frost:

Something there is that doesn’t love a clean house,

That sends dust motes through the air,

And muddies little childrens’ feet:

And streaks the windows and the walls.

The work of cooking is another thing:

I have cleaned afterwards, the stove, the table,

And the floor.  The dishes that grow dingier,

The pots that will not be shined.  But who is it,

Who makes the messes in the night?

Or when the house is empty and no one in sight?

I wake and find the beds unmade, and more—

The lines in carpet washed away.

The tiles smudged and the wood made wet.

I tell my husband and ask for his help,

To keep the house ready for guests,

Invited and not, who come and view our disarray

With pinched lips and shaking heads.

They know how to keep a clean house—

Why not I?

The hours of each day pass by with this book,

Or another.  With worlds made of words that

Make no sense of time and dirt.

A child comes to interrupt.  He points to

A bruised knee, a bleeding lip.

I kiss, I hug, I sing a song,

Then send him on his way,

as happy as he was before.

And open my book again, find unerringly the page

Where last I left my new best friend,

husband, lover, or King.  And breathe the breath

Of sweet life, neither clean nor dirty, but real.

When I wake from that sleep, I see the dirt again.

And wonder—why must a house be clean?

Does it make our feet warmer in the night?

Does it keep a smile on our faces?  Does it make us

Remember the taste of forgotten herbs on our lips?

And what would I lose if my house were clean?

An earthquake or flood would do its work just as well,

On clean floors or dirty.

But a child should cry where the tears can drip freely.

And a child should read, barefoot or in streaming boots,

Without a care.  A child should be lost in a book.

Why not I?

And still the guests come, invited and not, who view

The dusty pictures and corners, the paintings on the wall,

In pencil or crayon, made by minds free to build.

And wreck.  Or whatever they will.