My grandmother's house was old before she came.
They made it of wood, the sure old-fashioned way,
and built it square and strong and balanced well
on solid limestone blocks, to ride high in floods.
In summer, you threw doors and windows open
to draw the cross-winds through, then fell asleep
on the fresh porch, lulled by a salt-laced breeze.
The house grew big with Grammy's children, expanding,
extending, adding to itself, till the kitchen stretched
to join the front and the bathroom moved inside.
Her husband was a carpenter. So was her God.