I hoist the old scarred oaken chair
onto the workbench.
I think about how this nick
and that scratch
and that unglued cross bar
happened
and how many years it has withstood
the heavy weight of the humanity
who have found it and laid their burdens upon it.

And I give thanks that it is still repairable
still of use and available
for the brief respites
of those it serves.  

I give thanks that I too
am still on the workbench.