Words

The words happen,
predestined to be years.
Sometimes they fur like moss.
Sometimes they drain our blood.
Sometimes they fall as hammers
on the house’s roof itself
and through.

The words happen,
and we want to think they have ears.
They listen to us, they learn
to mimic us.
Strange, bloodthirsty little pets
we can surely tame.

And here we are moving on,
and where will they go,
our little loved ones,
domesticated things
we must turn out of doors,
return to all wildness

from whence they came
to play house a while.

And still we smile to remember

how they crossed our threshold,

fleet of wild foot

and their friendly little fangs.