It groans when I pull it open,
the tangled mess of mismatched nails
rattling like an old man clearing his throat.
It never gives in without a fight,
lurching out with a shout, leaping like a dog
into my arms, its unfinished surface
running against my hands.
This drawer was once a pine
reaching upwards,
its branches rattling in the wind
like the nails it holds now.
I wonder if this is what becomes of all things –
splintered, hammered,
reshaped, still groaning,
still holding, still reaching.