You once put violets into a jar
and set them in the centre
of the plank table --
frail bluish violets
on a tatter of white crochet
saying like a grace
that without the greenhouse
they would not exist.

The pine floors now are cold and bare
and light, thin here
from tall windows giving
on only wastes of snow.
But for the builder
I would have no shelter.

Still tacked to the wall
is that note you scrawled:
'But for loneliness,
nothing would be set down.'