Way back in early 2001, before we lived here,

they raised the soft bones of our house out of the ground

to stand, ribs exposed, in the sun on Haverly Drive.

On the weekends, or in the late afternoon

after the workers let their tools clatter and left,

the house belonged to no one. The rain kissed

the boards of its young frame; squirrels whisped

into our living room, our kitchen; rabbits tried

the floor’s stiff strength; the wind explored

each screw and bolt. In the bright pool

of morning sun, before the workers returned,

dew crept along the walls, a damp ghost,

and before the doors and windows were delivered,

our house was a home to the wild.