The Woodpile


Is this woodpile just a load of junk,

The parts which have fallen off,

Never to be affixed again.


Or are they a shelter,

Made from the errors and mistakes,

Providing a refuge; where I can store the sorrow.


Until it becomes an evitable joy.

Last Minute

I know my answer should have been earlier,

I needed to attend all the meetings,

To have listened to others when the discussions were happening,

But I didn’t.


Now, the report is due,

The conclusions are in,

A consensus is made.


But I will still place myself at the head of the table,

Even though I did not prepare the food,

Invite the guests,

Or even greet them at the door.