Your last poem surfaces in a notepad on the end table, mid-metaphor, right where you left it. You haven't forgotten what it was that was going to be a blue boat lost at sea. Most houses Creak and groan. His home Reached out. Pulled me close.
Houses can cry With despair inside.
His home breathed, Wrapped itself Around me tenderly. My cousins cried. His gardens flourished, Drew me in. Rays of warm sunlight. Butterflies, bees darting.