[38] A Reach, Lynn Clague

The smell of fresh milled wood
fills my cranium
like years a millennium
as I walk past a pile of boards
curbside.

Memories of days of labor,
long ago, for a master builder,
craft in a two-by-four;
musings now, for an unknown carpenter,
of multiple possibles.

Shoring up, say, a wall falling,
restoring a grand old dining salon,
reshaping a master suite to suit a new mistress;
constructing, from nothing, a Yukon
of fresh beauty.

A summer cabin, lakeside,
screen porch in front stretching, like hope
or imagination, atop trued masonry;
giving onto woods, water, distant mountain,
and blue eternity.

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