In autumn we return to level floors:
no longer barefoot, drinking air with skin,
we leave behind the slamming door
that keeps mosquitoes out, cats in.
Within these walls so warm and so secure
we wait out winter’s storms and neighbours’ trips;
here toilets flush and taps give water pure,
and out front we see cars instead of ships.
The simple construct that our cottage is
we tend to take for granted every summer
with floors that wander like a gravity quiz
we still return for reasons without number:
the sweet familiarity that it brings
can draw us back like screen doors pulled by springs.
