I have never been so tired in my whole life.
The mountains run across
like a knife. Forlorn
boathouses perched out on rotting piers.
Empty lots of naked scrub.
A water tower.
A column of fire.
The lattice of clouds make
the intervening atmosphere,
twinkling distant lights.
Crepuscular, this stand of trees.
In my hands, a paperback—
its yellowing leaves.
Everything I have
It may not be as surprising to you
as it was surprising to me
to learn that a bird makes no home.
I often think of them out in the rain.
This is my home. There is dust
in the corners. A hole in the sheetrock
I have to fill, then sand, then paint.
We bought some furniture
for the porch, but it’s too cold out
now to use. A dog likes to sleep
surrounded on three sides.
Then I recall, for a bird,
the sky is solid—a bird’s house
is larger than mine. We built
a fire in the yard, and drank beers
the night our cat died. My coat
reeks of smoking pine. Fire is
the soul of the wood, raveling
back into the air, the trunk,
the living built to house itself
over time. A tree is its own house,
and a bird’s, and mine.
Featured image: Memory of a Tree (2) by Noluck at flikr.com. CC license.Share this post with your friends.