First, a frame;

a solid frame,

then walls

defining rooms.

Windows overlooking

untamed landscapes.

Unburdened by constraints

we built many, many

frames and rooms.

Early spring,

with the dogwoods in bloom.

We made mistakes

before humbled

by leaking roofs,

tiny fissures

along the seams,

the soundless dropping

of the cherry tree leaves.

In summer,

small fans whirling

on the hottest of days,

the screen door open

to catch the breeze.

And we knew we would

never die.

Some things outlived

their usefulness,

we threw them away.

Other things sustained.

By autumn,

paint peeling 

from the ceiling,

floorboards creeking,

We were artists.

It was okay.

Then, in

winter,

iclicles dropping

from the trees.

Below us,

frozen sidewalks

with frozen leaves.

A ferocious storm

blew in, 

tearing our homes away.

We watched.

We were numb.

It could get worse,

we said.

And it did.

Day to day to day.