From Your House

From your house, right now
you can’t see me, strange as this
may sound to a casual observer,
                             but you can’t.

How some nights you call me
on the telephone to tell me
that: from down in the valley,
looking up on the mountain,
you can see a faint blush of the 
otherwise blackened silhouette 
through the trees, which
burns in my bedroom window:
and you knew I was home.

Well, darling, tonight 
you won’t. There is a cloud 
descended, and she’s smothered
everything, even the smoke
from the chimney sinks toward
the ground—the birds, too, 
don’t know what to make of it.
I just thought 
I should let you know.