Echoing down the winding flowers
Printed in pattern on the walls
Comes the rhythm of the oak tower,
Swinging its brass weight ball.

Closed blinds keep out the small
Square houses and backpack students.
There comes in only the warm fall
Sun lighting fibers and ornaments

In a pure and omnipresent
Orange. The fan swings silent and cools
Me, but in all there is calm warmth.
Everything in peace under the pools.

I lay in the tall green chair and soak,
Listening to the ceaseless tapping oak.