The three pine steps
have worn soft.
The sagging runners

bleached from sun
and rock salt,
warped and grain

tattered from boot
treads and spade tips
lifted then dropped

as walking sticks
at the tired end of a day.
The toll of winter's

hammer and grind
grows heavier
each year. Sunlight

worms through
cracked cedar shakes,
vermiculates the dark

clutter of workbench
and plywood wall,
where years of rusted

tools hang on nails
bent like bluefish
hooks. A coping saw

and its dust shadow.
The kitchen clock
whose hands, dizzied

and tired, have given up
the chase. And the one
crimped wood shaving

held in the block plane's
dull blade, furls
like a dried petal,

a forget-me-not.
A small tribute to the end
of beginning new projects.
A settling in, a settling in.