Photo by Andres Iga on Unsplash

We Make our own House

The bareness of the house returns

With the new June bugged light —

I’m a contrary thesis of growing older

The white wine of last night knows.


I have no answers to why the future

Folded her grip in my small preview of freedom

Something aligned and I am off

Like a thing running for the shores in the night.


There is an elemental parent in our whims

In our impulse there is a secret wisdom

The soul knows well enough when to flee —

And freedom and forfeit has a reckoning.