Our Half-Finished House
More statement than investment, more Frank Lloyd Wright
Than Martha Stewart, we dreamed it mostly
glass and abstract comforts. No lawn, we left the lot lousy
with underbrush and saplings most would cut and haul away.
The driveway’s downslope turn hides our angular gray ghost--
a modern gesture emerging from that wooded space.
We invest in photosynthesis. Our return, pawpaws
by the creek, the sweep of swamp oaks rising.
Place: this slab of concrete, no foundation,
feature wall rising for no clear utility.
Instead, our defining gesture, a very-real
wood-framed forest filling every window.
It’s on the hardwood hillside where the outside wall now
stands that we found past evidence of occupation: small
fractured atlatal point. Around it lay scattered quartz chips,
the refuse pit for Archaic Period labor.
I picked it up, pocketed it, talisman securing
our continued settlement.
A ruined river road forms our southern property line,
risks flood when the Lawson’s Fork rises.
walking down slope, I slipped off my shoes and waded
the orphan current, glimpsed upstream
a flowing, a future, and the run-off moving through.
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