August 22, 2003


burnt red cedar
etched with lines
paintings of insects
tunnels trace paths
across shingles
making a road home.

this house it breathes.
aches and stretches
groans harmonies to the
rumbling of night

door knobs give way
six bulbs blown
cupboard hinges hang
just one
garage door left
to rise and fall,
seal us safely in.

what more can come undone
in the heat of the summer.

and still,
signature fingerprints
along hallways remind me
how small she was,
imprints of life
the art of time passing
strokes of white baby shoes
and strawberry-stained fingers.

there isn't much
I would change
if I could,
except maybe