Let’s step outside in the mountain night, renew Whole vision of this integer of cells: This house, in separate amber shining so, Uniquely seen, as though another self: Unit in space, now for a time clearly Walled, roofed, warmed: now for a time . . . How little, how long? Whisper it flawless, dare we? Shout it, and count the neighbor rays that shine, Digits of oneness, careless into space . . . Yet if tomorrow, yet if tomorrow shaken, Lightless, forlorn? Therefore. Look, while the eyes Know this for ours, and the amber word still spoken. Though wood shall rot and light shatter, though Self dissolve on a breath, this house is now.The best part of the story didn’t fit the luncheon welcome format, and that part is: the wild man of Western Slope poetry, David Rothman, who introduced me to Belle, has a book of Belle’s work on the way. It’s called Belle Turnbull: On the Life & Work of an American Master, and I highly recommend that everyone who cares about good poetry put it on their “must have” list right now.