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Craftsmen's work remains invisible.
BONES © 2018 Ken Kahn
I use the tools of my trade 'most every day;
Every one impeccable and pristine,
I keep each surface sharp and clean.
I use the knowledge my teachers passed on to me -
Different cuts and different flow of grain,
And the soul of every tree -- and which is stronger
And every joint, every notch and beam,
Timber raised, frame complete.
Puzzle pieces that fit in neat, and true.
All that simple poetry in these walls out of view.
Yeah, these bones remain unseen.
I love these houses that make up our growing town,
Sheltering the folks that dwell inside
With bones that I provide
I've froze in December and wilted in in August,
Gotten my buzz from the smell of the sawdust.
Dawn at the job site, with coffee steam rising -
A whole day ahead, I give thanks to the Goddess.
Blink at the sunlight that pours through the rafters.
Little Joe jokes and we double with laughter.
Then we strap on our tool belts and climb up these ladders-
This cut, this nail, this house, this glowing moment -
They're all that matters.
And when I'm gone and my own bones finally are dust,
And tools are being used by younger hands,
These bones, they still will stand - for a little while longer.