"Mark its container: X/ Two intersecting lines,/ A lattice point/ Of time"

I was reading up on the poet Pat Lowther when I came upon the house she lived in at the time of her death in September, 1975. No, let me try that again. I was reading up on the poet Pat Lowther when I came upon the house she lived in with her husband Roy and their children -- the same house where Roy, in a fit of rage, beat her to death before driving her body to Furry Creek in an attempt to hide it. Okay, one more time: I was reading up on the poet Pat Lowther when I came upon the house she lived in and noted, with much sadness, how similar it looks to my own.

Here is a poem from Pat Lowther's Time Capsule (1997):

BEFORE THE WRECKER COMES

Before the wreckers come,
Uproot the lily
From the hard angle of earth
By the house.
Crouch by the latticed understairs 
Rubbish and neglect
(The sudden lightning
Of sun
On your back
Between the opening
And shutting
Of the March-blown clothesline,
Rise and fall of the swift light
Like blows.)
Here a lifetime's
Slimy soapsuds
Curdle the earth,
In this corner
Under the stairs,
But have not killed
The woodbugs
Nor the moths' pupae
Which brush your fingers
As you dig
For the round, rich root,
The lily root
Which has somehow, senselessly,
Not been killed either
But has grown every year
An astonished babyhood,
An eye-struck Easter.
Pack it among the photographs,
The silver polish,
And the last laundry
Which will not again
Lift and shutter
For the shattering sun.
Mark its container: X
Two intersecting lines,
A lattice point
Of time
And the years' seasons.

Before the wreckers come,
Carry away
The lightning-bulb of sun.