Cedar Rot

The wood was supposed to be a home

for something with wings and a song,

not a hollow box for the rain to own

in the weeds where the dead things belong.

I dragged it out from under the shed

and felt the grain bite back at my skin.

A yellow sliver, a needle of thread

buried deep where the nerves begin.

It’s a failure of glue and a failure of sap

that the house is still here while you're gone.

I’m digging at my thumb, closing the gap

of a splinter that’s holding on.