Shelter of Wood

Splintered grain beneath chipped paint—

nails jut like stubborn, silent saints.

A shelf I threw together blind,

meant to break but still designed

to hold the weight I never planned,

books stacked crooked by my hand.

It creaks and shudders, leans a bit,

but still, it holds—I dare admit

that flawed and fragile can endure,

that something built can still be sure.

A crooked shelf, a quiet bluff,

rough edges keeping strong enough.