Last night my house was burning. Could not find
one precious thing to grab and find comfort in.
And when the torrential rain hammered out the
flames, I was angry with its self-righteous
My house is still burning. And where it is
whole, I have not found all the rooms,
closets and old garbage.
There is no longer
a complacent order.
Havoc has its own
integrity. Charred walls accept young vines
and holes in roof allow the fragrant spring
to freely visit.
My house is not my castle. It is not the
precious final coagulated fulfillment of
ironed-out dreams. It is a plant, a tree
swaying in the evening wind.
Joseph C. Zinker, 2001
from: Sketches: An Anthology of Essays, Art, and Poetry, Gestalt Press