Handiwork

HANDIWORK

Carpenter Jesus, I’ve recently taken up wood-

working. Nothing artisanal, but I'm proud of it 

for what it is: a couple sheds, a greenhouse

of old windows, a farmhouse table with benches

for the screened-in porch. Most of it’s made

of wood I scrap from behind the hardware

store or local construction sites—there’s

something more invigorating about the second life

of a two-by-four than its first.

Last night I made a workbench. The irony's not lost

on me, but I like knowing I needn't ask for help,

can do it myself. I’ve even started selling

garden boxes to supplement income since the baby

you made us. Quick sellers. About 6 feet long.

Sometimes I like to assume your point of view 

and imagine North Georgia sprinkled

with who-knows-what growing in the containers I made: 

tomatoes, summer squash, marigolds, whatever else

they dreamed up in the available space. At this point 

the little shoots are probably just breaking soil,

opening their first true leaves to light.

It’s the night I like most, skill-saw whining

in the yard by the light of the carport, stars 

scattered like you spilled your bowl of screws

while making another container for your seeds.  

By any chance, does cinching boards together

count as prayer? The poet in me says yes, 

but I don’t always trust him because he rarely cuts it 

straight. Neither do I. I use plenty of shims because

mine's crude work, but it gets the job done.

If he’s right, though, and whatever this is

qualifies, I’d ask nothing more 

than to hear you say the same of yours,

to feel something beginning

to take root in these crooked corners.