A poem by Isabelle Sorrells

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1800 –

Houses from trees

Vacuums of wire sticks

Heat unstoppable

Layers upon layers

Laundered at a tedious boil.

Small doors

For small people.

Low light – if any at all – to combat the dark.

Long days,

Short nights.

All work, no play.

And,

With a shiver,

Cursed chamber pots.

.

.Walking through this log village

I am more grateful than ever

For electricity,

AC,

And plumbing.

I thank God I was born in the 21st century.