Under The Sun

The walls of the barn my father built are now the floorboards of my little house.
They are just as warm but now worn smooth by constant treading.
They are just as strong but now they hold a different weight.
They are older now, of course, but younger too.

The frame that holds my mattress is made from the wood of an old apple tree that never bore sweet fruit.
Now it bears sweet fruit.

My only bowl is made from the skull of my favorite dog, and my knife from her hip bone.
She is still serving me well, and I am always happy to see her.

My coffee cup is made from clay I harvested as a child.
I dug deep through the sand, and worked quickly as the muddy water seeped in.

I myself am made from cells that were not my own.
Two, four, eight...
Ad infinitum.