The man here is practicing the lost art of waiting alone. His sharp awareness of his surroundings—the comb, the glass, the wind, the birds and the “magnificent” clouds—becomes a way of identifying with the one who lives here, the one he seeks. After all, they are her clouds. He then encircles the house, leaving an invisible line, which she will unknowingly cross when she returns home. He has failed to see her, but he has left his mark. None of this would have happened if he’d had a cell phone in his pocket.
On Not Finding You at Home
Usually you appear at the front door
When you hear my steps on the gravel,
But the door was closed,
Not a wisp of pale smoke from the chimney.
I peered into a window
But there was nothing but a table with a comb,
Some yellow flowers in a glass of water
And dark shadows in the corners of the room.
I stood for a while under the big tree
And listened to the wind and the birds,
Your wind and your birds,
Your dark green woods beyond the clearing.
This is not what it is like to be you,
I realized as a few of your magnificent clouds
Flew over the rooftop.
It is just me thinking about you.
Before I headed back down the hill,
I walked in a circle around your house,
Making an invisible line
Which you would have to cross before dark.
Billy Collins served as a two-term U.S. Poet Laureate (2001–03) and is a member of the American Academy of Arts and Letters. His most recent book is Dog Show (Penguin Random House, 2025), with illustrations by Pamela Sztybel. “On Not Finding You at Home” originally appeared in The Trouble with Poetry (Penguin Random House, 2005).