I sold the cottage because I could not stop weeds rising from stone walkways. Could not poison the relentless moles and their hilly interruptions or send them packing with high-frequency sound implants.
I sold the cottage because I could not keep Giant ants from whispered gnawing could not spray Away wasps, clear foaming algae from pond, Keep geese from shitting tracks along its muddy banks.
I sold the cottage because the root-cutting snake Got lost on its way to the skeptic tanks and bit me on the ass. Because the odd angle of its roof trapped rotting leaves, and moisture seeped through.
I sold the cottage because pest-control crystals Despite their many warnings and dangers did not kill the odd angels of the dark nightscape. Because the aerator on the pond drowned the silence.
I sold the cottage because the raft for swimming was removed for insurance purposes. I sold the cottage, and I took the money and buried it beneath the rotting outhouse of the dream of a place in the country.
I sold the cottage because the great blue heron across the pond scripted its beautiful calligraphy across the dusky skies and spelled out my silent shame.