Neither tree nor forest, he says,
so we cut the wood down, lay logs
into neat corners, sturdy walls, a roof
to keep the rain out. Tall double doors
with a pointed arch, like this could be
a place of worship, worthy of
holding the entire sky within
its fallen ribs, of hosting hymns
written in laughter, in questions
with no good answers. Fill it
with sunlight and stars, with
breakfast and bourbon, baths.
Give it a name, if we're brave.
Then, at long last, when time's
the only thing left to measure:
plant seeds by the door to give love
something to grow with and mourning
a mark to follow as the seasons end.