I never did prune the roses. 

I let them go feral and jagged. 

I do not like the thorns. 

I cannot shirk injury so they grow more unruly.

Undisciplined — the both of us. 

 

There is a hole in my front porch.

I hear squirrels gnawing in my ceiling.

They are a banded army and I am outnumbered.

I assume, by the sound.

Seeking shelter — the troop of us. 

 

There is a kiln in my garage. 

I have never fired it. 

Never even thrown clay. 

I have many “one day” items collecting dust.

Waiting — the hoard of us. 

 

The hammock is frozen stiff.

It is like a petrified corpse, catching the temper of the north wind. 

I do not take it down, in case of lovely days. 

Enduring it — the two of us. 

 

There is a cold front here. 

It shook the house with the overgrown roses, the hole in the porch, the dust in the garage, and the rock-hard hammock.

Blew the front door open at dark and sat me upright. 

Shaking walls — the both of us.