Never build a house to the south, they say.
Itís cold. The sun goes north on holiday,
the nights are bitter, even the fleas retreat.
But summer, ah, summer is another time.
The flimsy house is hot enough, the doors
and windows gape to catch a breath of air.
And yet I like this house under the pines.
We have mended the roof, painted the walls, set all
in order. Only the garden will not be tamed.
No manual can coax this stubborn earth
to bloom. Sometimes we blame the pines, and laugh
knowing our lazy ways. The weeds rejoice.
© Mary Stanley