Retreated to this cabin built so long time
gone, so many childhood tears expended
on my shoulder, bruised fingers, knees whacked,
sorrows, yours and mine. I have improved these walls,
found old carpeting, tacked up that between
studs for winter, covered all with rough-sawn
one-by, loving other folk's blown fences
as I do. The desk was my mother's. These
books belong to that other person's life
that held this body five decades and more,
but I like them still. Spenser, Sidney, Plath,
Carruth, Millay, Thoreau of course, and Abbey.
Eclectic. There is no water in our creek,
it being very late in June now, and
there's heat enough for any of our Augusts.
Sweat spills from my nose, threatening to kill
Mr. Gates' supposed invention. Have I
turned off the water hoses? Paid enough
bills? I only wish to sit and sit right here,
sneaking a look beyond the windowsill
to know the growth rate of an all-encompassing
Himalaya runner. It wants the cabin,
all eight by twelve length and width of it.
When there's one more wall, that way,
or window, cinderblock steps or door for
it to steal, I'll strike. Too much life
is what we mean when we say "weed."