Treehouse

They gifted me a living house, with hedgerows

Out the windows and a pile of thoughts inside

All night, I hear it breathing life

It creaks, shivering out the breezes

Bleeding darkness out into the hollowed

Out interiors as the living sap once would

It is uncertain what to do with me

It has taken all I own as its

But I am still held back. Not unwanted

But unwelcome yet. No place found

I try. I have lived inside a house

Where dead stones pave the floor

And draw your heat. Here, grass forms

The streets and is not thought as weeds

But as a microcosm living as its own small world

Frail against the greatness, yes

But holding so much more inside.

Author's Note

Poem by Aquillo