The room is done.
The walls near perfect,
their golden yellow hues
bright in the early morning light,
their floors warm
with the grain of cypress and hickory,
the furniture in place.
It is a room now
that you would gladly show
to company- friends and strangers alike,
beautiful, warm, near enough
to perfect that you can feel pride,
not of the perfection,
but of the journey, aware
where others are not, of
the condition and brokeness
from a lifetime of neglect and wear,
of no one before you noticing
for your inner rooms, until
after the walls fell down around you
at the slightest touch,
you began, step by step,
day by day, month and years
to rebuild, and so today
while near perfection surrounds you,
you know the truth: how things fall apart,
and more, how they can always,
OK, I lied. THIS is the last of the renovation poems. A few of you have suggested I make a book of such poems. I am thinking of doing that, either as an e-book, or a regular book. Stay tuned.
And obviously the picture is an "in progress" shot. Hopefully this weekend I'll get out some and get some snow shots. It's lovely up here this time of year, and I want to capture some more of it.