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?
