Here's to the man Who Builds his Home





Here’s to the man who builds his home: strike on strike, two-by-four, sheet and lath, dim
paths strung with uncoiled lightning; swing, greenhouse, studio; trees taken and saved;
glass sheets for looking out, inviting light; every stone, angle, handle, shower-com
e-

lately, nail, wire and pipe. Why does a man build a castle? How many can, sucked as
they are into the maelstrom? What’s your answer, refugee on the run, latter-day Jack,
lighting at last, like a common sparrow on his branch? When did you decide to carve life

into that still forest, call it good? A man may forsake passion yet wield time’s lathe
passionately, chiseling a home out of a pile of boards, growing lettuce, Swiss chard,
children--hammering vision into form, learning at last that flowing chant: lose, love, let go
.

 

 


Being in this house





I have always preferred back roads.
If I die on one, at least I’ll know
I’ve lived my death

instead of watching it
through a window.

 

* SHIRLEY SULLIVAN is a poet, musician, counselor and theologian. She is a graduate of the second Sacred Service class of the School of Spiritual Psychology. She lives, writes and works in Denver Colorado.