Skip to main content


ISSUE:  Fall 2004

Where there were only dirt and needles,
I laid a floor of hardwood and shellac.
I plaited walls into the forest.
A record played birdsong to lure you back.

Where the resting clouds hung down like moss,
I inlaid a window high into the view.
I lifted rafters to branch our bedroom.
Each gable watched the roads that would bring you.

And when I saw movement through the woods,
I lay down my apron and tools, my sweat and woe.
I stood in the doorway I had cut for us.
Wind played wings across the road, foolish shadows.


This question is for testing whether or not you are a human visitor and to prevent automated spam submissions.

Recommended Reading