No Roots

On the fridge, my niece's house.

Yellow crayon, a square with a triangle hat.

Two windows, a door right in the middle.

Smoke from a tiny chimney.

But the green line for grass

stopped short of the bottom edge.

Her house, like mine always was,

just floated. No earth underneath.

Nothing to hold it down,

just color on paper, lifting slightly

in the draft from the kitchen.

It looked solid enough, if you didn't look close.

But it wasn't. It never was.