I’m far from handy,
but from scraps of driftwood
I’ve fashioned a life
perhaps modestly endearing.

Warped and weathered,
the floorboards of my soul
are sturdy, though tired
as the hands which laid them.

The timber, rough and knotted,
groans under the weight of footsteps,
and, in its own language,
says more than I ever could in mine.

But I’m not one for words.