And yet my body slouches toward acceptance—
not of the cost of life, but of living it
under the roof we greedily wanted
so much we would pay for it over time,
yet all day the sky mirrors the heavy clouds
and brittle trees. Surely it is love
that keeps me pruning.
The house has grown on me,
and in me, there’s a window
that overlooks an acre of gratitude
that is vanishing over time.