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Aug 2017
From my window I see
branches dripping
gray fog.
I face a long day
heaving heavy boards,
testing
my brittle back,
glasses wet
with sweat,
porcupine fingers
bristling splinters,
shaping lumber
with a clear heart.

Carpenter, carpenter, what do you say?
Cut wood all day,
bring home the pay:
a pocketful of sawdust.

With strange joy
I can't wait
to begin.
Joe Cottonwood
Written by
Joe Cottonwood  La Honda
(La Honda)   
  1.1k
         Cassandra, ---, Wk kortas, Book Thief, L B and 14 others
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