Make new space out of old space –
It’s almost like creation.
A hammer’s not a pen, though,
And boards not sheaves of paper.

This wood with all its textured colors
Its riverine grain, amber studded,
No meaning to its structure written.

For all the sweat and planning,
This room is not a poem.

Where shiplap pine draws lines above,
A transited perspective lends
Not one line level to the eye,
By edge growth-driven angles cast
in all directions.

A randomness diminuendoes,
It’s patterned half by evening light
On flaking coats of paint.

These studded walls and joisted floors,
And raftered ceilings – metered foot.

The premise of creation –
A dream drawn in suspension,
The ghosts behind the veil were meant –
Significant intention.

Desire’s not enough, at end.
A purpose might seem definite –
But just an attic room remains.

And this for all its verbiage –
Reflections of a poem.

Donovan White