poetry by j matthew waters

living wood

using century-old claw hammer
we pull the rusty nails
out of the two dozen body-sized
boxes that had drifted to shore
over a fortnight ago

the cedar had dried out by then
its aroma replaced
by the sea and the moon
the contents succumbed to the same
awash and long forgotten

little by little we straighten out
the nails as delicately as possible
the captain in his makeshift quarters
working on his latest designs
to finally free our minds

december two thousand nineteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

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