I built a house of clay and promise,
seasoned timber, hammered tin,
windows carved to catch the morning,
a roof that sang when storms blew in.
I filled the walls with breath and mercy,
lit one lamp and swore an oath
to guard the cradle there beside me,
from fear and lies that blood had told.
Then came the rain, unarmed, relentless,
a grace that slipped through every eave.
It filled the basin, fed the garden,
and washed the ash from all the leaves.
The wind grew kind, the dawn forgiving,
light touched the cracks and lingered there.
In fragile calm I kept my silence,
when fear slipped through the quiet air.
The child rose up on steady feet,
each season stitching flesh to bone.
His laughter climbed the walls like ivy,
claimed the house as his alone.
Now he walks beyond the twilight,
toward fields I’ll never see.
The lamp still burns. The door still trembles.
The house keeps watch instead of me.
Nov 8, 2025
Nov 8, 2025 at 6:08 PM UTC
I built a house of clay and promise,
seasoned timber, hammered tin,
windows carved to catch the morning,
a roof that sang when storms blew in.
I filled the walls with breath and mercy,
lit one lamp and swore an oath
to guard the cradle there beside me,
from fear and lies that blood had told.
Then came the rain, unarmed, relentless,
a grace that slipped through every eave.
It filled the basin, fed the garden,
and washed the ash from all the leaves.
The wind grew kind, the dawn forgiving,
light touched the cracks and lingered there.
In fragile calm I kept my silence,
when fear slipped through the quiet air.
The child rose up on steady feet,
each season stitching flesh to bone.
His laughter climbed the walls like ivy,
claimed the house as his alone.
Now he walks beyond the twilight,
toward fields I’ll never see.
The lamp still burns. The door still trembles.
The house keeps watch instead of me.
Request permission to use this poem