Structural Integrity

The wind is doing that thing where it tries

to find the weak spot in the window frame,

howling like it’s got a prize

or a grudge it needs to call by name.

I looked at the bookshelf in the hall,

the one I hammered together in June

with scrap oak and a spirit of 'that’s all

I can manage.' I expected it soon

to lean or buckle under the weight

of the hardbacks. But it stands there, flat

and stubborn. I remember being late

to finish it, how I stripped the screw—that

shiny head turned into a silver crater

because I forced it in crooked and fast.

It didn't matter. Six months later,

it’s the only thing I’ve built meant to last.