Failed attempts at restructuring the roof this morning
in the rain
How it sits
my family flashing lights into the chimneytrying to see
it seeps through the roof joists
and drips on the land
still upright tree wood (branches?)
drifting from the floor sill
Can I afford cross-beams?
How can I emulate the bark
of elsewhere, rootless timbers?
I stand on the front lawn,
window frames sophisticated.
All those glittering bits of glass
it's ok the housewood that reminds
of wood before its felling. Once more,
this time it's appropriate, with feeling.
our real needs
does not profit us
the hillside trees
down to their roots
What is the sum of 9 and 11:
It's your turn! Move into the poem. Renovate it. Knock down its walls. Put your spin on it. Make it your own.