i was born there in that little house.
the one perched on top of muddy ditches and willow branches.
with broken boards piled where i crawled like a beetle.
dipping my hand in that bird bath, porcelain and cold,
i touched the world.
i touched the chill.
and water droplets stained my tattered dress
and i watched them disappear from me.
it was cold there.
cold with water on my hand
and the wind in my ears
and the ghost from under the deck
and the remainder of yesterday.