(Untitled)

holy ground: part of me was made here.

forged between the porch rails

 in maroon brick and homesick marigolds

this house is my bones —

it settles

encircled, where the earth builds walls

and sky dips in

to the mug of the mountains 

to bless our gardens, and our holding 

and withholding 

and the swing and the steps.

although she would say now

that the tree needs trimming

and the chairs need painting —

it now mothers itself,

and we do it for each other

in the tired way

that only mothers know.