How capable I am of making a supreme mess of things.
In a heartbeat, I think, I could, by accident, topple walls,
crash floorboards, unstick this thing of us.
And yet, by some miracle or blessing,
each possible disaster crumbles
before I can even set my hands to the fire.
Even as winter blooms
with its intended forecast of mutiny,
I wonder if any tempest
could dare touch this house.
The walls and floorboards haven't moved an inch.
And all I see, spread out
like lush and vigorous certainty,
is something almost resembling