House

In the slip of a season, doors  
slink from hinges, damp rot wins.

Mother’s house hitches as vines grow
into its eyes. I harvest its parts:

door knobs and bricks, the arched
window through which we glimpsed

the wolf and long night moons.
The walls—I commit to thorn,

let oaks root in the rotted floor,
lichen and moss riot.

In forty years, a blossom,
revenant from her lily bank, might stop

a hunter in his tracks. He will lower
the gun, but not know why.