THE HOUSE
The stones that slid down the mountainside
were gathered one day by my parents,
and with them, they built a house.
March delighted us with vibrant colors.
We kept bluebells in a glass on the windowsill.
On Sundays we would sleep in
and wake with the smell of good cooking.
Summer was sweet and full of light.
We played in the yard,
running with laughter among the fruit trees.
But winters were cold down to the bone.
Sounds of distant snows,
like memories of stones,
echoed ceaselessly through all the rooms,
completely undisturbed
by our fires.