piles and piles of laundry and dishes
rising with each sun that sets
thick forests where things get lost
never to be found again
and tiny sharp wild creatures
eager to sting and snare at every step.
I follow the trail of bread crumbs
under couches and chairs
down on all fours
like a battle horse
saddled by its own weight.
I sweep the floor
with my own tears
I dust the shelves
of my own ashes
as I promise myself
that someday I will climb this mountain
and sit on it's highest peak
clothed in but a song
to bless this house of mine.
Today this is a house of prayer
and this weight, the saddle of god.
