Why a good book is a secret door

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Williams Poem

Williams Poem

Williams was sitting at his old, well-used, wooden desk the day after a soft storm.  He glanced out the window nearby and saw the weather-beaten chicken coop.  Next to it, a battered red wheel barrow.  It was a cold morning and he did not have much sleep.  His mind was not focused on writing.  Too many other thoughts streaming in. a Pipe in his mouth, a hand on his pipe.  Puffing away.  Lost in thought.  A rooster crows in the background bringing him back to now, right now.  He sees the wheelbarrow for the first time while starring out the window.  How much does that wheelbarrow do in a day?  Why is it so important? Am I like this wheelbarrow?  Am I who all are dependent on?  Am I becoming just as battered?

Williams poem seems to be so much more then just about a wheelbarrow. Even in its simplicity there is a question of longing, of self importance.

So much depends upon

The hinges

Overgrown with rust

Never to be opened again

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