this hut

leaving the hut, it seems,
the hut never leaves me.

this one, a box i just barely fit in,
only to realize i’m not really a boxy person.
i’m still found in this hut,
i’m still seen in this hut,
you’re still in this hut.

sunlight scorches the dry grassy lid,
charring the mud bricks from without,
packed with stories untold.
the cool of the shade lingers in,
a refuge from the hot,
temperatures colliding at the threshold.

yet darkness the pesky squatter,
seeps coldly from the hidden corners,
stubborn in its stay.
now light strains through the windows,
enters through cracks in the door,
the wavelengths win from the threshold.

the light comes one sunrise at a time,
day shoes away the night,
reliably, predictably warm,
the hut steams and shrinks under the might.
yet also like a star
feeling somehow far and near,
on an expansive cluttered map,
you are here.
where my feet are,
in this hut.

it’s both empty and cluttered inside,
a lonely togetherness.
i found a crowd of others reside,
gratitude, hurt, exposure, hiddenness, glee.
fear and courage,
dark and light,
couples and singles alike.
solitude invites all the guests,
silence bids any a fair welcome.
invited to appreciate the company in residence,
all the offerings of those in attendance,
noticing relentlessly present,
is that one.

silence invited a new shy voice to be heard,
space and void, longing to be filled.
then the still small one could expand,
take room, take root, move in.
i like what you’ve done with the place.
perhaps it’s our space.
more homey this hut.
more tantalizing this tent.

there’s in and there’s out,
this hut.
there’s you and me,
in this immovable tent.
nowhere to go but in,
and fully engulfed without.

this hut, a home.
this tent, a temple.
with many rooms,
and many guests.
this hut from dirt,
a humble dwelling,
inviting a holy dwelling.
this simple dirt,
now with a little life, a soft clay.
a vessel without much volume,
generously saturated,
yet thirsty for a fill.
defined by my contents,
not the dusty shell.

the kingdom comes to humble places,
inhabits lowly spaces.
not afraid to get his hands dirty,
the king delights to shape clay.
i am mud in the mud,
yet touched by a potter each day.
i am a hut, in the hut.
a tent, in the tent,
and housing the groom.
so even here,
can be a homey home.
in this hut,
is more room.