I lie in bed. The house shakes just a bit;
a logging truck speeds north to Canada.
A load of spruce goes forth. When it’s sawn true,
in time, as two-by fours, it will return.
Just down the road, a grader sucks a tit
of land and wears it down. A penumbra
of roads and houses soon will shade the view
and take a lengthy chance with nature’s stern
embrace. The race to leave a cellar hole
is one my eighteen-fifty farmhouse will win.
Despite my level best to skirt the rules,
the plumb will always skew, just like my goal
to leave a measured mark – to say I’ve been.
I rise; I put on clothes; I find my tools.
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