salt box house
I’m wood-clad, weathered
gray by snow and sun. The lights
inside my stories flicker as the moon
calls and departs, full or waning –
phases little matter, matter little
to hours creeping through
the rooms which define and redefine
by fashion and function my trusses,
my mortise-and-tenon joints.
The architecture of nothing nailed,
of metal shanks not present, solid
and creaking all at once; simple
and stoic, I populate
my space in time as only something
purely necessary will. Leaning near
a copse of trees, I cover and nurture
my humans, my spanning generations.
They creep from cradle to rocking chair
here beneath my hand hewn beams,
crafted to last beyond the end of a
hammer’s ring, until after
the end of fleshly
pleasures, of love, or loss. I decay
over decades but hold.
Author Biography
Dena Rash Guzman is a writer. She edits Unshod Quills.
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