I’ll build our bed by hand,
‘n it ain’t but pine,
but I’ll trace the stain through every grain with finger and palm,
‘n I’ll know the taste of every screw.
with ached ‘n scarred fingers I’ll carve:
“even storms find themselves in safe harbor, sometimes.”
with great scratching strokes,
in secret places where I know your head will lay,
so with curious fingers,
you’ll find good news,
some way
ward morning
when things seem
l o s t.
