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.