Walled in, relax

You climb all the stairs, in your Mac, up to the clouds,
on the edge of fields no one plows.
Perched above salty, misty waters on the cliff, at hand a pack,
your voice aroused.

To strike it down, with lusty hacks in solitude inside your shack.

Plywood bends in gusty winds, yielding slightly to your ends
Shelters ink from bleeding stains.
This germination from without, springs forth from doubt
A force that drives daemons remains.

A shack, a post, a base can hold a man in one place
or liberate him in his own space.
A fortress against distraction, it may result in legal action
for grinding axes or unpaid taxes.

Eaves left open for birds to light in next to Walden
or over ice where smelts are hauled in
through a hole in the floor, with a spear you gather more
as noses poke in your door to overhear the score.

Summer's odd mosquito bites, winter's frost hangs tiny spikes
inside the wall, scratching mice
Thumping wings of a pheasant, fathers echos from Mount Pleasant
Growing mould in gables crescent.

Whatever season, whatever reason
simple retreat or high treason
The heavy weight on your back can
be set down inside your shack.