For Sale

There's a one-bedroom house down the street.

It's not an old house, though some may say

it's old for its age.

There's chipped paint and cracked bricks,

stains from rough weather,

and some holes in the walls

where a thousand words used to hang. 

It's been through a lot.

It'll make it through a lot more.

Spacious rooms are filled with sunlight,

while others are cluttered with knick knacks.

Some rooms have shadows and stuck doors.

It has quirks; squeaky steps,

windows that take a bit of work to open,

and some that open with a simple touch.

It's made of stories,

but there's only the one bedroom.

People come and leave; the front door

closed behind them in regret, or

slammed as they rush out.

The first person to live there didn't stay long,

just settled in and began looking elsewhere.

After a few short months of decreasing attention,

he left the house.

The next person didn't belong at all;

no, the squatter broke a front window,

forced his way in, took advantage

but gave no claim.

Didn't treat it as a home, just 

a temporary replacement

for the house he had lost.

And he was gone,

though he tried to break in again and again.

For awhile, there were just lookers,

offers were made, turned down, regretted,

taken back.

The first buyer came back, but only

out of selfishness, stayed,

giving less than before.

A storm blew through,

leaving incredible damage behind.

He was unable to find value in the house,

and so he moved on.

Someone else saw value, though.

He had put up an offer before.

Seeing the damage to the house he thought was beautiful

broke his heart.

He worked all summer repairing the house,

putting in time and dedication,

saving up, waiting,

until someone new rushed in and bought the house.

This house wasn't a true home to him,

it had work that he couldn't fix.

So he had to move out.

The bidder, buyer, was finally able to call this house his.

During his stay, little things broke,

needed fixing, and he fixed them, but

there were nights where he didn't come back.

The care of the house became harder,

and the brokeness became too much.

He moved out with a promise,

to one day return and make the house his home,

though promises lose credibility with time.

There's a one-bedroom house down the street;

people pass by, some seeing beauty

and some without a second glance.

It has its quirks, and its character,

and its broken parts, but

there's a one-bedroom home down the street.

Imagination Did Not Create the World

There's a lake down the street.
A porch swing hangs at the edge of it,
nudged by the heavy summer air,
towards the starry sheet of water
that holds all the drowned dreams.

Tangents of thoughts may have dreamt this place,
but they didn't coax the beams from the ground.
No, ideas of love didn't bring it to being,
nor was it the fantasy of future days
that made his hand fit with hers.
But it was something.

The timeless world of a room for two,
and here was their room,
with its ceiling of stars
and its walls of cattails, and pine trees,
and a solitary street at the back.
One street light in a fight with the moon
to be a part of the creation,
the culmination,
of the two hands being held,
and what was imagined to happen.

They created this moment perfectly,
and then it fell and shattered
into the world that was already there.
The towering trees,
the cicadas, the July night,
the breeze that carried summer's smell,
created the room that was theirs,
that was there.

How to Spell Snow

Snow is made of silence,
blankets that smother sound,
pieces of feathers that float
down to the trees,
whose leaves are curled,
baseball mitts to catch and hold
the clumps of cold white.
The scene was bare,
a bus stop,
crooked tree,
empty bench,
then heaven had its fun,
an angel's pillow fight,
now fluff and fallen angels
litter the ground
and words that litter the air,
are stolen by Jack Frost,
mere breaths of clouds.
They cannot be spelled
by any arrangement of twenty six.
No, they are spelled
by the patter of crystals on a coat hood.
No, they are merely patterns of light
that glitter by the street lamp.
No, they are merely
                                silence.

Half

We were born
baby A, baby B.
I became Kara

But they'd say her name.

I'd turn,
knowing what they meant,
though blonde and blue are nothing like brown.
The apology would rush after
my identity,
but too late.
In that moment,
I was just half,
half of an inseparable pair.

My identity
is easy to lose
when it's associated with her.
Not half.
Not the same.

Welcome to here.
I'm not her.