outside the house
that sheltered my becoming.
Beside the tree
that was never big enough
to become a fort,
there’s a patch of root-riddled dirt that
never made the
break as a patio: the roots would not
suffer the bricks.
The broken bits and blocks
made sufficient supply
of worthy construction materials
for a five-year-old,
building little fortresses for ants
sprawled along
such new walls. Like hieroglyphics
scrawled in unsingable
song