Apr 9, 2012


Written by Anna Lowe Weber

Read by Michael Mlekoday

Oh, March. All the ice cracking at once
like a banquet of spreading veins. Our poor
square house sinking another quarter inch,
the foundation we were warned about
playing right into the home inspector’s claims.
Oh, fractures. Oh flooding oh fissures oh snaps.
But even after he delivered his report,
the cry we mustered was: But we love it!
We have to have it! And so each year, the house
takes us down a little lower. Each year
we find ourselves a little closer to the dirt,
that yard a veritable garden of soggy dog shit
once the snow melts.
But some plucky sprout of green
is pressing on, forcing its way out of the ground,
all impetus and pure will. And our neighbor
raises a hand when we leave for work in the morning.
What do you think — is it spring yet? Just call it what it is.
Instead of trying to mend them, just let broken
fences stay broken. Magnificently wrecked.