My Worst Habit

My worst habit
Is the speck of table that remains
When all but one piece of the puzzle
Is properly placed.

I grasp the remaining piece,
The key to an almost translucent door,
And consider my strategy;
Four sides,
Four possibilities.

Too easy.

Surely there must have been a mistake.
Perhaps it's in the roots of the spruce tree to the far left
Or the lone deer standing valiantly among nature's giants.
I begin to disassemble and rearrange the image,
Mangling the placid scene.

A moment later
The world of my own creation is destroyed;
The key is still held firm,
But the door is gone.