The House Of Timothy
When summer came, we built a house of timothy grass,
open to sun and rain and air
and the children said
“This is ours."
I hadn’t the heart to warn them—
happiness is usually impermanent.
They would grow very tired of
lying in eye-watering grass
contemplating cerulean blue.
Days shortened. Mowing machines came—
I felt the grasses shrink in fear. Crows
came next, then coyotes, and
we loved those shy wild dogs
poking delicately through garbage.
Someone left a tarp; we ripped
open a corner, look, a door!
and moved in happily.
Winds came tormenting the trees.
Then fires came.
With nothing left now,
I’ve asked the children
to finish their story.
"It’s over” is all they will say.
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