A painted lady by the bay,
all windows lit up. Step
closer to smell
muffin spices,
steaming murmur. It’s
a chill Friday night.
Now quiet your
ears. Hear creaking
beneath hollow talks
of conquers, and coming:
a baked tired chatter
old floor firmly holds.
We didn’t build shelter
for season, laying solid
oak planks, but to comfort
for eons.
It did not.
Now step back.
Siwash by the bay, crack
a can. Once you’re full,
we’ll share true
ageless homes—
not as warm, but too
made of wood.
2019