White Picket Stake Poem

White Picket Stake

By Emma Snyder

Owning my own home felt so far away. 

So, I bought a singular white picket stake.

It was what I could afford for this make believe gesture.

I wanted to practice for the real event, some day.

Simulate the success of the ultimate, American Dream.

I hike up onto this pathway of a mountain. 

Aiming high, I was going to make my mark. 

The path was rocky, intensely elevated, and I wore the wrong shoes.

The wind built up resistance.

When I finally make it to the top, I celebrate my achievement. With a smile. Fill my lungs with air.

My plan was to plant some seeds. Revisit later. 

Prove my existence was there. Lasting. 

I drag up a shovel to mount a foundation, yet only dig a hole.

The dirt feels stiff and dry.

It wouldn't make sense for it to bear offspring.

They may sprout, but will find a lack of proper nourishment.

The growth that they deserve.

I contemplate-

Pour the water onto the cracking ground, hope for opportunity to grow,

or

Take the sips myself. Quench. 

I feel thirsty. 

I drink the water, instantly feel better and pack the dirt back in.

I decide to remain level with the earth, as it was when I had arrived.

I select a fresh spot.

With both hands, and the full strength of my arms, I pick up my beloved stake.

I excitedly plunge it into the ground.

A deceptive rock below the surface snags my efforts. 

My grip was not strong enough.

My hands lost control and I fell onto the stake.

The rigid, yet slippery edges of the stake gave no forgiveness to my flesh.

It ripped right through me, calling me a fool for pretending.

Red wood.

At least I saved money on stainer. 

A personalized touch nonetheless.

Do It Yourself home renovation.

It hurts to laugh.

Spattered the red, on top of the white, under the clear blue.

I feel my heart pulsating into the wood.

It makes its home inside me.

They were right, this is a warm feeling. 

Warmth is spilling out.

Blood, sweat, and my tears went into this after all.

This lonely stake could now collect thousands from me and my limp body.

Now, a family burden.

The debt is never done. Even when you are. Even when laid to rest.

It was as if I belonged to it, not the other way around.

It was never really mine. It was a borrowed momentary possession.

Ironic if I were to be placed in a wooden box under the ground.

There’s no way to wiggle myself out, like I have in many events before.

And- oh, great.

There's a rusty nail pulling itself deeper into my skin, taking its cut.

There’s always a catch!

Was my white picket stake not perfect after all?

Blemished.

Rusted.

Yet, unused.

Still up for sale after all this time of waiting. 

The demand for these stakes are high, but its sale is selective.

With my weight sitting heavily, the red wood starts to splinter, becoming more and more unstable. 

I start slowly falling over, bringing me closer to the ground. 

I focus on what is in my view, surprisingly vast at this height.

Take it all in.

Look down.

The surrounding soil surface is broken.

I think about the possibility that I’ve severed some hidden lives below.

Will the bugs mind if I share their home? Welcome me to their grounds when I have stabbed theirs?

I speak out loud.

“I’m sorry.”

Look up.

I spot softer ground on the other side of the cliff. 

This side’s much steeper.

The grass looks greener there. 

There’s low hanging fruit dangling off a distant tree.

In season.

In my current condition, it’s still too high off the ground for me to grab even if I were there myself.

I’m gawking at the sight and smell, wishing for a taste.

The wind carries its scent. 

Desperation and disparity are heightened.

An Eagle snatches the fruit twig, swiftly and sharply.

It startles me though I have no energy to react.

Life slipping out of my hands. 

It tries to conceal it out of my view, yet it lands close enough to taunt me.

It takes its time to eat it.

Top of the chain.

The Eagle flies away.

It has many territories across the land.

Once it's done sucking up the juices, the grubs race for scraps.

Contents consumed.

The pit shrivels up in the heat of the sun and gets knocked down the cliff.

A new, healthy sapling would have provided for the next generation of chicks.

They’re hungry, selfish eaters.

Don’t clean up after their mess.

I won’t lie, I feel resentful.

Those who enjoy their premium “stainless” steal are feeling secure. 

I bet they feel impenetrable.

Solid with countless locked, sturdy fences and various valuables displayed inside.

Haven't been touched, but pretty to look at.

It’s a Dream because they want you asleep.

In some case, and another, Reality isn't as staged. 

The more you think about it, the more it doesn’t become conveniently evident.

It hardly feels lucid.

The Dream however, is customized to one’s liking.

Instead of reaching this Dream, I've starkly woken.

I am disconnected from this State.

Some are resting well. 

In the grand scheme of things, collecting a relatively uninterrupted sleep. 

They remain in the dream.

Free to roam and play.

As I closed my eyes, I think maybe I’ll finally reach this dream at last.

In a different way than anticipated.

It’s promised to be sweet and sound. 

I am going home.

A place built for where I belong. 

I’ve had one all along.