Hand In Hand

Alert: Smoochy poem ahead. (Also another carpenter poem.)

     Laurie and I are looking ahead to 2025 and moving back east.  I think I have one more house in me, as long as it's not too big.  It will very likely be my last opportunity to build as close to perfect as I can, something of real appeal since so much of what I've built over the years was done under significant time and money constraints. 
     I recall that my first ten plus years of carpentry ('79-'90) was filled with the tap-whack-smack of 8 penny nails in decking, wall and roof sheathing, long before I got my first nail gun.  That tempo never leaves you. I dreamt it for years.  The first time I danced a waltz I recognized my old buddy tap-whack-smack.  This, as well as so much else, is dedicated to my Laurelei. 

                 Hand In Hand

          When it’s nearly over
             I’m going to build
               a house for you,
                our last house,
                     by a lake.

   I’ve missed the tracking sound
        of nails finding their way.
   First tap to stand on their own,
             the second to travel
                 most of the trip
                   and the third,
              a short drive home.

       And while the hammer falls
     and the dance instructor calls
                 one, two, three,
                 one, two, three,
          my free hand fumbles for
                  your hand and
              the next nail’s head
             and sets him in place
                  for the next tap.

               That is the tempo
           for a long lasting house,
              nail by endless nail,
                  plank by plank,
                    wink by wink.

                 I hold your hand
          in a gentle hammer grip
               as we find our way
           across the dance floor
                  built by a long
                and loving waltz.

                         11/22