everyone writes about nature
they want to hear the birds
and weave a story like a flower crown
watch the sun as it goes down

but i can't stop writing about houses,
old and tired, new and perfect
the horrible things that they have seen
the sickly air hanging in between

the moon will always be here
and i thank her for that
these places will crumble and mold
and i am thankful for that

one day one day i can be
a flower or a star or a fawn
after i scrub the repeating
repeating memories out of my carpet