Hidden Cottage

Crouching in the wooded hills
behind a forest's leafy shield,
where the riotous stream careens and spills,
the hidden cottage lies concealed.
 
The windows show no silhouettes,
though chimney smoke will puff and pour,
and perhaps the strangest yet--
the hidden cottage has no door.
 
What stays within this old, hushed place
with dark behind its foggy panes?
No one knows, so well encased
in solitude does it remain.
 
In noontide's beating yellow glare,
the cottage blazes proud and tall,
while in the softer morning air
it smiles over the garden wall.
 
Yet when rainclouds gush and skies have grayed,
the cottage sobs down its wooden beams;
along the eaves the tears cascade,
to drip into the surging stream.
 
When gusts disturb the quiet,
roaring through the cottage glade,
it breathes down upon the violets
nestled in the shade.
 
On tranquil days it stares below
to the stream that spurts along its track,
perhaps wishing for the waves to slow
so its reflection could stare back.
 
Oaks lean toward the windows
asking, "What in here must hide?"
Garden roses stand on tiptoes,
wishing they could see inside.
 
Rhodedendrons crowd the wall
where a doorway should have been,
but windows sit above them all
beneath ivy fingers thin.
 
Sheltered on its forest wold,
while the wild garden grows,
what does the hidden cottage hold?
Perhaps only the ivy knows.