Tin House

Stillness turns in its well, the summit moves with the tide.
The house is constantly unfinished, the desire a cold nest to rest in.

The reservoir is trying [attempting] to freeze over
with an expanding map shaped like an angel.

It sooths and rejects.

I wonder if seasons were create by our brains [memory].

In winter the house will not have us. In summer, it opens.
We are considered innovators of all things.

Moths swarmed the elm tree
one year, and bees the next, so I thought

we misinterpreted the meaning of the word home
in the yard, alien voices

it was the teeming.

The third year brought butterflies.
I found an explanation for the phenomena in the poem.

It reflected the light moving across her black and orange wing.

in the tradition of Mei-Mei Berssenbrugge

*a few lines are, in fact, Mei Mei's. The 'tin house' is my imaginary recollection of Mei-Mei and Richard Tuttle's 'summer house.'