of what enlivens her flesh, or depresses her pulse,
of work at home or neighborly chats, or of the man
at the grocery who pursed his lips as he picked-out fruit,
or the silver veining rain on the screens of the porch last night,
or of a small bruise on her thigh which doesn't seem to heal.
Men know of The House of Blue Tiles, but from different views
and may help or hinder a woman on her way.

Still, one arrives alone. Perhaps leaving in groups
or when it gets crowded. Yes. Leaving The House of Blue Tiles.
But for a moment, petrified with astonishment,
one understands this temporary housing, this way
station, the soft clay of such respite, and rests.
Here the walls are built like dovetailed drawers.
The web of light outside, a trellis of hawthorne,
a mild guide to the house gleaming beneath.

One cannot be fetched to The House of Blue Tiles,
as one can barely recognize one's own arrival.
Merely, (suddenly), one finds one's self there -
and yes, one can be fetched away.

There is no license, no tax to The House of Blue Tiles,
and yet it costs something. It surely must.
Though there the body calls-out in thankfulness,
the heart aches gratitude one's features glow with grace,
and the mouth in pleasure might blurt-out downright testimony.

You may bathe at The House of Blue Tiles if you have enough time,
but either way bring your body, don't just send your mind -
for The House of Blue Tiles requires al sinew and muscle and bone...
for complete quiescence of the appetites one requires flesh.

And, yes, bring wine - wine and bread, though you will not need it -
possibly a cand le if you're one to read just everywhere
and since what looks like landscape is often decoration
bring a map and surefooted dog, for company, for witness,
for the pure joy of another sentient being.

The House itself cares not for your details of dress -
nor whether you come bearing Shakespearian roses
or morning glories, or rare blue flowers:
columbine, clematis, larkspur, the rarer blue calendula...

The house cares not. 
You may come lame or lithe, your breath sweet,
or your whole face a blank aspect. The House of Blue Tiles takes all,
one at a time perhaps, but all - it takes Gypsies and Jews,
lapsed Catholics, a ll. It takes the unforgiving, it takes the noble,
the frail - it takes the itinerant painter, the terrible waitress
with bad feet, the small boy who stole candy, the wild-eyed insomniac
who only sleeps on New ear's Eve. It takes us all,
daubs each of us with its cool light, with its frank favor.

The world is its country. For some it is a foreign landscape,
and whether or not we faun over our betters or gnaw at scavenged bones
The House of Blue Tiles is there: fragrant, guileless, and pure.

With fidelity to its true purpose The House offers cupids,
images of dieties, girdled in this particular incarnation
with a golden fire, a blue weather.

You come and it offers the brass ring that feels good in your hand,
here the key fits, The House of Blue Tiles is not a domain of the prophets,
but a ruin and oases all at once. It may seem to set tasks or amusements
but that is all illusion.

Be convinced it is crudely patched and crumbling,
of fragmentary materials, coated with bright tints,
and here it is only a version of itself, existing elsewhere,
and here, a momentary stay against chaos.

Grooves by the door are filled with coins
offered by the faithful;
the roof's pitch, the windows, reveal more or less
a vertical cosmology. In its surface you may see yourself.

What a thrill to glimpse it all by moonlight...
- to know it exists, The House of Blue Tiles...
- to imagine what rain would fall upon it and how the rain would taste.

Most of the windows in the House of Blue Tiles
are unfettered, open to the open sky and the sky
can only signify possibility.
Even at The House of Blue Tiles the sky twinkles.

Here Silence sits, Light reflects, Patience is part of the air -
and though it is a prayerful place
The House of Blue Tiles asks nothing.
It is an empty place, overbrimming with itself.

The House of Blue Tiles is one-of-a-kind.
It is not cast from a mold. It has taught everything everything.
This particular House of Blue Tiles is mine.
From here, where you stand looking you can see many others.
From there one fails to look.

The House of Blue Tiles forbids hopelessness.
It can be ransacked, robbed, or disappeared.
And yet The House of Blue Tiles is always there. Where?
In miniature, infinitesimally small,
it is between a baby's head and its mother -
on the path of that head to rest on the chest of its mother.
Yes, on the path.

You see The House of Blue Tiles is where Happiness resides -
But knowing this I realize that by now
I have arrived somewhere else. The House of Blue Tiles is there, waiting -
not to be found but stumbled upon.

Adelle Leiblein