The work began with cedar, ash, and pine.
In cold months, the architecture rose
on Utah timber, the truest I could find.
Eventually, come spring, the windows shone.

The house stands abandoned now. In time,
the clapboard, screens, and porch decomposed
to a bleak mark—a wreck on the tree line.
So ruination brings the builder home.

The red metal box is packed with tools:
galvanized nails for the bedroom I dreamed in,
a trowel for the plaster my fists passed through,
a needle and thread for the curtains’ revision.

Open the unlocked door. At once a throng
of starlings scatters, bursts from the roof in song.