His logging days are written
in myrrh,
standards
inked
into withered hands
far beyond soap.
With lard he scrubs
fingers and palms red,
scraping
at a song he dearly loves
but must let go.
In the soothing rinse
the crisp hum of tap water
evokes
the buzz of his saw.
and his heart softly drums
an ode to the forest.1
You are far more talented than I ever realized.Great job my friend.
Thank you, Brenda. I appreciate you taking the time to read and to comment.