I never lived there long enough to trust
it to be home; my memories are bright
and pointless arrows littered in the rust
that perforates a rooftop gone to blight.
What I intended moves were really stays
in houses built of bundled straw or sticks.
My sojourns didn’t last a hundred days
before the dwelling fell against my tricks.

The wolfish wind and custom’s goatish pull
dismantled and devoured every piece,
until I learned to dig foundation full
enough, and when to recognize caprice,
and how to build with purpose, slow and sure,
a dwelling that will shelter and endure.