Sticks and stones make broken bones,
But they may also build a home.
A house, a home, a life sculpted out of that
Which may turn right around and kill.
What if homes consisted not of sticks, of boards and planks,
Not of stones, bricks, and mortar?
What if a home was not sticks and stones at all,
But trees and boulders,
Those sums of the parts that are greater than the individual?
What about branches (sticks which are not tame)
And rocks (stones that have no sense of human domesticity)?
What if our homes held more life than us?
What if moss grew up the walls and
Mushrooms housed along the borders and
Birds perched among the roof tiles?
YOU ARE READING
A Collection of Poems and Short Stories
PoesíaI considered titling this something like "Rain's Droplets of Poetry" or something like that but ??? there is some vent poetry in here, I'll add warnings before each chapter that contains these
