This could be any orchard,
filled with winter riddles.
These trees were made by a spider.
Not one naked fruit will fall.
Nearby, houses crowd each other,
mimic webs, the hidden weaver.
Still, carpenters work from a faulty
pattern; trees cut from the wild stand
as dwellings over ancient footfalls.
This orchard is a cloudy mirror.
Before it is a single image, many
silks, a blossoming center.
The city inches closer
for instruction: Streets are
too random, buildings too busy.
But one house knows, reaps its own
fruit, firm as a springtime apple.
Painters change its skin from
gray to a pale, joyful yellow.
Day by day hammers fill the house's open,
windy spaces. New roof keeps the sky
above, makes foundations solid.
The old dog breaks his chain, even,
to run past a rose-colored window.
In the yard, a spindling fruit tree
cuts the cold with a wispy offering.