The house has bones
that pop when the temperature changes,
signaling a new season blowing through.
This man made house is fragile,
not built to last, as I’d hoped, for eternity.
Joints holler in pain each time
the joist threatens movement.
This structure isn’t sturdy; it will
come down.
I want to sit here in the garden
where the ground doesn’t quake
and new fruits emerge with splendor.
Tomatoes evolve their color and okra makes
her grand entrance, pointed and unafraid.
Everything in place, everything as it should be.
And I don’t lift a finger.
(September, 2020)