Writing poems amid the potted geraniums
and diving sparrows, their nest
above me in the rafters.

The oak tree just beyond is lush
in the slanted summer light,
and I feel a hush fall through me,

a deep, green, pooling quiet
I’ve never known before.
It is the unfamiliarity of the house,

I imagine, this place along with
the late-August heat that lulls me
to sleep like a cat in a patch of sun.

Every wall has been hand-painted,
white-washed, scrubbed-clean.
I know every imperfection intimately.

There is peace to be found
in making the old new again.
Work is required

to call someplace home.
Each evening, as the coolness of the oak
seeps into the patio,

I write poems, exhausted, processing
the beauty we have found and created here.
The sparrows sing their advice to us:

Breathe deeply and rest now.
Joy is where we look and find it.