its hard to write at times,
but not impossible to cut.
this is not diamond,
not a precious piece of eternity.
this poem is wooden.
a carpenter does not wake up,
brush the sleep and sawdust from his eyes
and proclaim himself uninspired
to make chairs or chests.
he takes blade to oak every day because that is how he survives.
this is a craft.
build something i can sit on,
something of some use.
this is a craft,
no such thing as carpenter’s block.