unaccustomed sunlight,  flutter
of a stray snowflake wavering in the cold ...

my first house was built on shadows,
the second was built on the day's last breath.

darkness resided in the hand-dug well,
a cylinder of green coolness

and rain scampered on the sheet-metal roof
telling stories my children loved to hear.

my third house was built on an oriole's last moment
of daydreams. my reflection celebrated loneliness;

beauty was the sadness of impermanence
barely concealed by the dying light.

among the trees that rustle through
the night's saltiness,

there are three languages: sound, smell,
and forgetfulness.

all of my houses have been makeshift rooms
of fleeting dreams

lost among footsteps engraved on dust.
i have followed a dream that has eluded me

on a road winding through
a patch of globe thistles

severing the wind to pieces