The home has roots, the wind beats its retreat to the corners of my realm.The garden in back is very pretty, as I pretend to be duke.The sky is warm and empty, the stone path I laid is very pleasant,The waters are slowly rising, I can hear them beneath the ground.
The days are warm, and I try to smile and enjoy them.The calm is deceptive, the gently swaying trees give reassurance.The slow nearby stream's waters are pure, not part of what is coming.The strange puddles that begin to well up are still but a nuisance.
Memories of car drives with tearful "I'm not sures",Rememberance of "I wasn't really ready" and "You pushed me to this",Thoughts of disintegration and fighting the tides,Unkind recollections with insinuations of guilt.
I look out the window, the rolling hills in human shapes.I feel gentle groans as the home slowly becomes just a house.I stand on furniture to keep my feet free of the moisture.I wonder how many times this has happened, and to whom.
I see moist walls fall away, crumpling like tissue.I sense the stones of the garden picked up, given to new places.I hear the water give its last sermon, "It's again just a place".I look back and see water fill my tracks.