Home…

And the cat dead and the new novel unread and the sleek floor gone over for the 25th time in 48 hours and the jade bug saved and ants investigating the kitchen sink flooded and toys rescued from the melting glare and the gravestone in shadow and the chimes pulled from the fruit tree by wind sent from a roughed up witch and her pot of heat and hide and time with the gravestone but time with the boy and his blue pail and our garden hose loosing water splashing his smile and the boy sleeping in the room where I creep to recline and breathe and watch the swallowtail circus-act with orange blossoms outside the streaked window and more people arriving with seashells and wine and people arriving with a riled dusk and candles in a shadow-sparse yard with the gravestone and a lawn we have come to coax and a house with a name now and cats pleased by those floors and beds to choose and the kitchen with filled cupboards refusing to close and his books on the coffee table and all available chairs and the room with music if anyone cares to and the house breaks and the house is fixed and we move through it in our bare summered feet and use its funny rooms with the quirks and the jade bugs and we wake up here with the cat dead and the novel to finish and we broach a new enthusiasm: owned, owning, owning this summer’s scald and slow scurry, owning up to this owning of the broken and the unfinished and what remains beneath the potato vine and precious water and mown grass and roses to plant and the feel of this armored summer on our faces clueing us in so that we quickly agree to agree to owning this piece of a little bit more than any years prior and to owning the gravestone and to owning all bugs and we sit in our chairs with our floe-drinks and toast the waterbaby in the garden who owns the whole world.