The gift is in these walls,
a bit musty from food frying and
a bit dirty from child-hands running across old white paint.
The gift is in this air,
fresh morning air chilled, sucking in through windows
with wood smoke and
afternoon air warming through window-plates of glass and
through the steam of an ever-circling clothes dryer.
The gift is in this noise
(and so is the curse, I’ll sometimes tell you);
The gift is the noise-makers,
all of them – all of us –
pressed into these walls,
breathing this air,