THE HOUSE THAT PETER BUILT (An Original Poem)

I came to Yavapai county  with you 

out of love and guilt. 

We bought 12 acres of land 

and built our future on high ground.   

Cheatgrass, witchgrass, pricklypear, 

buckthorn, manzanita bushes, 

blue spruce and juniper trees all 

surrounded us, but we weren't afraid.   

We had well water and were on the grid. 

We had protectors too. 

The Black Hills hunkered down to the east 

like giants bent over in a huddle. 

The edgy Granite Mountain wilderness 

guarded us on the west.   

By day we made adobe bricks by hand 

with sifted clay-rich soil, sand, straw, and water 

mixed and poured into wooden forms, 

smoothed and then freed as new bricks.   

Rows of new bricks laid out in the sun  

to dry. Then stacked to air and cure.

It took forever to make 

all the bricks we needed. 

As I worked, I wondered if you knew all of my secrets,

and began to dream that

each brick I made was

a sin against you forgiven.

We cleared the ground, dug a foundation,  

and framed the outline of the house,  

a simple wooden skeleton with some 

rough-hewn timbers for strategic support.   

Then we built the walls with our  adobe bricks, 

and adobe mortar, staggered course 

after staggered course, 

leveling as we went.

Some new friends came to hoist and set 

naked cross timbers and wooden slats for the roof. 

We built further up with adobe brick 

and finished off the low slope roof.   

We layered in an adobe floor, 

and covered everything else by hand

with adobe mud, soft rounded 

surfaces inside and out.  

The swirl of our hands was sealed forever 

in the adobe plaster on every surface. 

It felt like the house was hugging us.

It felt like we were hugging us.

Our dream complete,  we rested. 

At night now, when I lay in bed  

with you asleep beside me, 

I can feel the house breathing in and out.  

It strengthens me and dulls  

my lust and wanderlust. And when I get that itch 

to stray away from you, 

I hear the house weeping. 

Or is that you?