The Removal of Nails
This morning, the door is closed,
its thick hand-hewn boards thick,
beautiful and imposing, determined
to keep you in.
You can hear the demons laughing.
They know just how strong the door can be.
They helped you build it, after all. careful
to use the finest materials,
an over-engineered prison.
There will be no battering this door down.
But you have learned your craft well
and you are armed with the tools of your trade,
and broken as you are, you can wield them,
a master.
One by one, you pull the nails out
and toss them to the ground.
The laughing ends as one by one, the boards
come undone and the boards fall useless.
Light streams in. You stride out,
none the worse for wear.
About this poem.
A depression poem. It was a hard morning getting started. But started I am. It is also a poem for anything that gets in our way. Sometimes we tear down the walls one nail at a time.
The picture was taken at the Hancock Shaker Villiage in Pittsfield, Mass,
Tom
