Caught in the bright eye of encroaching sun,
The music falls in windfalls of white fog.
Bird feather tracings of suggested flight
Hone moments to the sharpness of pale skies.

Hands interlace across a hobnailed cup.
Gray windows mirror a century of warmth.
The shabbiness of day is beautiful.
We take a picture of it with our hearts.

The old house rides on morning like a boat.
Indifferent to the turbulence of trees,
It crests the dawn with dignity intact,
And rests becalmed on seas of goldenrod.

Sandra Fowler

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-old-house-rides-on-morning/