I don't know how true to Barrington's yours is, and what the exact relationship is between the two. Please enlighten me...
Perhaps have the original above your own.
Your wish is my command, jon. What follows is Barrrington's poem -- far better and quite different than the piece I wrote, although you will find what I think of as "markers", particular words that are the same or very alike in nature; areas where a "turn" occurs from the course the poem seems to be following. Mine is all together different, yet yet yet -- mine would not be, would not have formed quite as it did, if I hadn't been reading and then emulating this poem. [This last memoir workshop that I attended, instructions on the first day were to pick a memoirist we respected and admired and emulate that writer's opening paragraphs . . . this method of improving writing skills is still very much taught and I still very much use it!] Enjoy!
The House on the Bluff, Judith Barrington
Sometimes it wishes it could tiptoe
down the hillside, pick its way
among rocks and olives and stonecrops,
dip its toes in the green sea,
instead of just sitting on this ledge
gazing, gazing over the infinite water
while the sun seeps into its soft white walls.
Obligingly, it casts its shadow
over the musk of the grape arbor, but
sometimes at night it thinks of diving
straight down: imagine the emerald explosion
as phosphorescence bursts from its plunge
and droplets flash as they rocket away
like fireflies caught napping!
But in the morning, as the sun rises,
the house squats down ready to take the weight
again on its terra cotta tiles.
Red peppers beam as the first rays
reach their roof; geraniums nudge
each other awake on the terrace;
the bougainvillea stretches and sighs.