God made the summer house in just one year.  Board by board, nail by nail. Failed to lock the door and now everything comes and goes. Sprouts and grows between the floor slats.  Rats in the cupboards and trout in the tub.  We rub ointment on the bites that appear overnight on our limbs, the mosquitoes the size of rabbits that appear, butting against the screens.  God made the bugs and the baby made of bees.  Made the rugs we hide under when the bears come to gather the honey. Rumbling though the rooms where god makes us smaller than the house and the bees and the baby that god made perfect, then gone, then perfect again.