Saturday, November 12, 2011
Another rivulet ran down my back, thrashing
as I did at the brush, branches and leaves
falling to the side in a haphazard pile. I will
build my home in this perfect overgrown spot.
Tonight a bonfire of what should not be here
will light up -- Tripping headlong hand on shin
and axe in the grass I then saw the foundation.
Wincing, sitting upright, encased by four walls.
Within a house that once was, and is now not
I sat, not the first to desire this view of the lake.
What of that family, what century-dead dreams
still linger among these thistles and brambles?
Rising to continue, I pictured this added task.
I must smash up this old cement -- When my
great-great grandmother called her husband in
to dinner, what word, what name did she utter?
-- © Ciprianowords, Inc. 2011 --