Solid Ground

I've appraised you as the house without a plot,
you've become the land forgotten under what is 
now the skeleton of what we call our home.
The frame has weakened under pressure of 
the weather that chills the hands, 
incapacitating our eagerness to 
prime its walls
in eggshell white.
The migrant workers have dispersed 
as the season calls for callused finger tips,
incapable of 
softly tracing the walls that spread themselves 
between the cages of the wood frame,
forever meant to rot 
by means of tears shed.