Cold Nail

One nail is still. It spends its nights alone

in sharp and straight and eyeless, mouthless fear.

Its metal is the only metal here,

on concrete floor, inside a house of stone.

The tree with leaves

The room is dark. The walls are far away.

It’s cold in here, and drafts have lined the ground.

No doors in sight. No exit to be found.

The days go by. The years. The nail will stay.

The tree with branches

I slept alone. I walked the road alone.

My back, my arms, were swept in biting wind.

Each step I took, my feet sang out my pains.

The tree with trunk

A metal nail once sat inside my bone.

Lest I would fall apart, it kept me pinned.

I’m dead and turned to dust. The nail remains.

The stump alone