Clarity

Clarity is when you close the gate
and flip the sign to the side that says,
"Visitors not welcome today"
and you shut the blinds
because you're done looking out
and your done letting people look in

Clarity is when you make friends with the corner
the one in the west of the house
and you look at the wall
and you beg for an answer
while you try to ignore
the sound of the mouse
that scuttles behind the plaster walls
and in between nail hammered beams
as you're looking for silence
and peace
and a mind
full of clarity.

Clarity is when cabin fever sets in
and you have to get back to the world
where the sun warms your skin
and there's dirt to dig in
where real things exist
like the grass and the sky
and your neighbors sweet chatter
and warm summer pie
Where there's more than a couch
and a cabinet and stairs
and a rattling fridge (that's now empty)
because really
how long can one last in a corner?

There's more than just food
and a place you can sit.
There are things that you feel
and you know.

It's that pivotal moment when you open the door
and your face rediscovers the sun
and the haze is all gone, as well as the fog
replaced by a sharp clear design
when you realize that warm just feels better
sometimes
and you abandon the light of inside
when you look at your yard
and the gate and the sign
with eyes that were so long deprived
of the picture you feel
and the things that are real
like the sun
and its warmth
and its light