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.'