The work began with cedar, ash, and pine.
In cold months, the architecture rose
on Utah timber, plumb as an axe could find.
Eventually, come spring, the windows shone.

The house stands abandoned now. In time,
the clapboard, screens, and porch decompose
to a bleak mark — a wreck on the tree line.
So ruination brings the builder home.

The red metal box is packed with tools:
nails, galvanized for the bedroom I dreamt in,
a trowel for the plaster my hands passed through,
a needle and thread for the curtain’s revision.

Open the unlocked door. At once a throng
of starlings scatters, bursts from the roof in song.