Would There Be Wood?

I head out today to get on a roof, it's wet, cold- I don't want to do it. I'd rather stay here and drink coffee but that's not one of the options. I am glad I don't do this more than 4 hours a day.

           Would There Be Wood?

             The days tumble on,
               on they roll right on
              through the silence,
             broken by the shriek
                       of a saw,
           the crack of a nail gun.
                  You can miss
             the sound of a voice
                 and so you talk
                to your hammer,
           the absolute dullest
           of conversationalists,
                and to the radio
                   but it all palls,
        echoing off the new walls.

        You can talk to the wood,
            you might swear at it
                   or beg it to fit,
                    cursing at it,
                  but it may split
           under so little pressure,
       sending a splinter your way
                  to remind you
           of its delicate feelings.

           When first you notice
           the faces in the grain
                  they pass like
                faces on a train.
 Later, after the job has dragged
        into weeks and months,
                you go looking
                   for that thin
               but happy stork,
     searching for the shopkeeper
           and his strange apron.

            The site is kept cool
because a body in constant motion
          works best in the chill,
    while the wood always remains
               warm to my touch.

             The smell of drywall,
               paint and concrete
        dulls your nose, but never
            the smell of cut wood.
             Above the table saw
      resin smoke hangs in the air,
    pine dust dances by droplight,
                 Piled about the
           sawhorses’ legs, wood
      shavings are curled to sleep.
The loneliness sinks into you slowly
       like a winter sunset, saying,
          “There are other ways
               to make a living.”
         But would there be wood?