I Do Not Own a House

I do not own a house, nor a kitchen nor a closet.
Generational trauma, bills, existential angst
and so forth — you know how it is: things collect.
Outside the plums are ripening on the plum tree,
and the oaks are darkening into late summer’s deep exhale.
And here is August, with her mornings of fine spun gold,
her shimmering heatwaves and smooth, meteor nights.
And there are days I am glad that I own nothing, like the grass.
And there are days I wish I owned a house, small but comfortable.

“I own a house, small but comfortable. In it is a bed, a desk, a kitchen, a closet, a telephone. And so forth — you know how it is: things collect.

Outside the summer clouds are drifting by, all of them with vague and beautiful faces. And there are the pines that bush out, spicy and ambiguous, although they do not even know their names. And there is the mockingbird; over and over he rises from his thorn-tree and dances, he actually dances in the air. And there are days I wish I owned nothing, like the grass.”

— Mary Oliver, ‘Swan: Poems and Prose Poems’ (Bloodaxe Books, 2011)

An earlier edit of this poem appeared in Scribe, August 2024. Thank you for reading 💙