Builders

Their pounded wind called our neighborhood. We were children who entered their work like a hearth. Electric wisk, whine, sawdusted the cool summer uder our trees. From banded boards basking in dirt to skeletal hints at form. Their whistles were crisp greenery out of trees and earth. They tooled and straddled their working days, leaving their plywood, their drywall chalk for our pictures. In the last light of the trees, we robbed scrap from their silent structure. And they were ghosts still working after hours. Our tree fort, ropes, nails chewing deeply into bark was worship. A monument to them. Published Black Buzzard Press - 1982