When but a boy, my perspective of time
was limited by the antiquity
of old houses: there was this red-brick one
down the road, that in passing almost daily
filled me with awe: it was obviously empty,
shadowed by trees, its garden overgrown;
it gradually began to dawn on me
that this must be the house where Adam lived;
once fixed in idea, everything in life
fitted, explaining continuity.
Years later, when my perspective of time
drowned that mystery, the antiquity
of the old house plain in identity,
my boyhood belief yet filled my remembrance
that echoed today in every conviction
of truth, and in my faith's sincerity.
