Building my own
to live free of shelter,
basking in the summer
with a winter's tone.

Lifting the first wall
to watch it fall,
then raising it up again
after the stone paths are laid
to watch autumn stall,
jump to spring
and bring back the in between.

All the while sharing
underlying things
without weakness or fear,
concrete tears falling down
each year,
to the ground
which rests below the foundation
where it will be my well,
it will rise and swell
and quench my empty gestation.

Structuring my own
to stray from expectations,
nibbling back to roots I've grown,
giving way for gentle humiliation.

I must endure
I must be patient.

Can it change
from what's been built,
giving solid way
toward ancient guilt?

Can the house change
from a crooked tilt
and bring a new day,
or will the ghosts always remain?

04/11/2007

Posted on 04/11/2007
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