Long fallen wide

What is it that makes one think this really isn't a poem about a house filled with photographs and cutlery, cushions and stools and vases? Is it the attribution of sadness to a thing? One's own propensity to live for other people's comfort? To have been raised to be that comfort to those who will outgrow the need for it? One's stubborn performance of home-liness, stasis, to call back into existence what is no longer there? Though we would like to believe in permanence--the idea of it, spurring us forward, further into the future, with the promise that there will always be home to return to, no matter what--we are, all of us, irredeemably fickle,  neglectful, and beyond that, mortal: so that even those amongst us who have in fact promised, in earnest, to return, are party to ruin--if not today, then some day.