by John Grey

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.

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