What it’s for.

Enter space and make it expand
The invisible possibility
Becoming volume
Becoming a shade of truth.
Unmarked out and nebulous
wanting the metric of handspans
a confirmation of measurement
Into a type of real
My father would nod at.

And to this mystery,
An order.
An unlikely fixedness of change
Framed by brick mortaring timbers,
that crossword of hope words,
is our alabaster womb,
cradling inevitables
beam and peak sheltering
until they become unnecessary.

And unto these walls,
The thoughtless scuffs
The tempest dents
The pencil milestones
Marking as we make
our domestic tattoos,
Our kind of sepia burnish
Marking us visible in our fragile moments
These walls are canvas and confessor.

And then home releases to house
a wilting,
For rain and wind and sun
to crumble,
By seep and rattle and bleach
a weathering,
To the glory patina of done
and echo
and quiet.

This flimsy of time
can be called reflex,
But this thread,
a circle,
untangles as it widens
can still draw a sun above fog,
so we remember horizons
and the eternity they bloom
in our children’s gaze.