Isn’t it strange how time builds

these houses we live in

with regret, confusion, un-knowing turned to stone?

Did you hear the workman start clearing

the land for construction when you were young

and I was younger – a child at your knee?

Did you taste the brick masons mixture

of grief and fear used to season the mortar

for the foundation as we argued away the years?

Did you see the man pass by with his chisel

and saw and boards and nails for the walls

as you grew older as I grew older too?

Did you feel the dark shadows as the shingles

were nailed to the beams of the roof

while we huddled – divided by our growing identities?

Did you know our houses would share memories

and history and tears and people

without sharing a common doorway for meeting?

Isn’t it strange how time builds

these houses that define us

with regret, confusion, un-knowing turned to stone?