The house was empty by then.
Realtors flicked cards across the table.
Little marketing faces.
I am interested in this house;
I am no longer interested.
The living roof took rain.
She pulled seedlings out of the moss
tossing them on the slab below.
She framed images.
She arranged images:
they protected each other
when he went below.
On return, he let her know
he had forgiven himself.
He followed her upstairs.
I can’t show you upstairs.
Boasting emptiness and light.
Mountain views. Remembering
is private; by “private” I mean
the poplar blows open every May.