Gutterless House

I am a house without gutter,

built on what I claim is stone.

From the street, I look steady.

Windows set.

Doors aligned.

Foundation firm enough to silence doubt.

But when it rains,

the water comes without apology.

Not a gentle mist.

the kind that once lifted boats

and split the sea open,

the kind that falls like promise

and warning at the same time.

It strikes my roof

with living insistence.

They say the water brings life.

That it can wake dry bones,

soften hardened ground,

turn wilderness into garden.

I believe that.

I just haven’t built

anything to hold it.

So it runs off my edges,

down my siding,

into soil that is ready.

Other roots drink deeply.

Other houses store what falls

and call it provision.

I remain upright,

almost untouched

except for the quiet erosion

at my base.

A house needs gutters.

Not because the rain is cruel,

but because it is faithful.

It returns.

Again and again.

And faith, perhaps,

is not the storm itself

not the falling,

not the feeling

but the slow work of fastening,

of carving channels

where obedience can flow.

The sky will open either way.

I am still learning

how to catch what is meant

to keep me alive.

— Naya.W