The train passes a field of house-outlines,
just the frames, cream wood at right angles
and a few with walls of insulation but nowhere
a roof; everything is still outdoors.
In the fall we live in frames ourselves, Ye shall
dwell in booths seven days, a week of admitting
to the temporary. We eat under branches
unless there’s enough rain to spoil the soup.
But these will become houses; roads
will turn in here. While we hammer together
ritual that comes in pieces and that can
always be disassembled again.
A home makes us believe it’s not raining.
Tradition taps at the window-glass.