by John Grey
This poem has been reprinted for our Editors’ Picks Summer 2026 Edition.
It was originally published in the Fall 2021 Edition of confetti.
That cabin in the woods,
Sam built himself.
He cut down trees.
He hammered and sawed
nature into submission.
It’s just one room
with a bed, a table,
and a fireplace,
but it owes its life
to his hands,
his skill with tools,
his determination
to deliver on his vision.
A friend of mine paints
but it’s the roof
that keeps the rain out,
not whatever he slaps down
on canvas.
I write poems
but I can’t live in them.
Sam put together a threshold
and stepped right through.
Art may be long
but its doors are tiny.
Words may offer clarity
but you can’t see
out their windows.
© 2021 John Grey All rights reserved.
Click or tap here to see John Grey’s profile.
Use the “Leave a Comment” form below to share comments on this piece.