May this house be full of kitchen smells and shadows and toys and nests of mice and roars of rage and waterfalls of tears and deep sexual silences and sounds of mysterious origin never explained and troves and keepsakes and a lot of junk and a flowing like a warm wind only slower blowing the leaves of trees and books and the fish-years of a child’s life silvery flickering quick, quick, in the slow incessant gust that billows out the curtains for a moment all those years from now, ago. May the sills and doorframes be in blessing blest at every passing. May the roof but not the rooms know rain. May the windows know clearly the branch and flower of the apple tree And may you be in this house as the music is in the instrument.
— Ursula K. Le Guin, “For the New House”
