The Gift Is In These Walls

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
sandalwood oil,
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,
together.