Evicted.

Expelled.

Dispossessed

of that old house

on the hill.

Three stories

of tilting timeworn

clapboard

& peeling paint

flaking over tired

green grass.

Seize it. Take it.

And welcome.

It matters not at all.

For in the moonless

night-spangled

dark,

I moved (removed),

like guileless wind,

all small & coveted

prized possessions –

a whole life’s worth

of work & soul

& pulsing wounded

heart –

to the small brown

bungalow nested

oh-so-sweetly

in the valley

below.

— C.Birde, 4/21