Rough Cut

The cedar’s gone a soggy shade of black

where the winter ice has forced a narrow crack.

I held the hammer with a shaky grip

and let the heavy, rusted metal slip.

A crooked nail head weeps a bitter streak

against the grain that’s grown so thin and weak.

The house I built is leaning to the side,

with nowhere left for anything to hide.

It won’t survive the coming of the sleet.

I feel the frost begin to claim my feet.

I thought I made a thing that meant to stay,

but gravity has found a slower way.