So Little. So DIfficult.

A corner. A window.
A small table. A trunk
to hold your secrets.
A little light. Space.

So little to need.
So difficult to preserve
the room to be and grow,
and grow some more.

About this poem.

Space has always been equated to potential in my mind. Too much, in all its forms, and suddenly you are stagnant.

The picture was taken many years ago. I think in Colonial Williamsburg.

Tom