Poetry Wednesday

Treehouse

There are holes

underneath the carpet, cut because I am planting trees

(you do not know this, but I am planting trees)

            under our house with loveinthefloorboards.

With love they will crash

up through the floorboards,

out through the ceiling and

into the sun.

We will hold hands through a leafy bed/

            make love with the branches between us

(trees are meant for houses)

Annnnnnnnnnnd, something not-mine that I love:

Home to Roost

by Kay Ryan

The chickens 

are circling and 

blotting out the 

day. The sun is 

bright, but the 

chickens are in 

the way. Yes, 

the sky is dark 

with chickens, 

dense with them. 

They turn and 

then they turn 

again. These 

are the chickens 

you let loose 

one at a time 

and small— 

various breeds. 

Now they have 

come home 

to roost—all 

the same kind 

at the same speed.