Old Jack's wood scraps made dandy blocks for a little neighbor boy to play with as Jack labored at his workbench out back.
S A W D U S T
Our neighbor Jack was a carpenter,
or so we had been told.
All we kids could say for sure
was that Jack was very old.
When we followed the sounds of
hammer and saw,
old Jack could always be found,
His workbench holding scraps of wood,
sawdust sifting to the ground.
He never scowled or raised his voice
or chased a neighbor kid away
but welcomed us as worthy fans
just stopping in to watch that day.
Whether or not a carpenter true ,
it's not for me to know or say
but I'll tell you this, a sawdust pile
still warms my heart in a neighborly way.
This reminds me of my dad...My children love to spend time in his woodshop...with or without him.
The smell of sawdust always makes me miss home.
Cryssa :~)
A good country take and as a child I used to think anybody in their 60's had one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peal. Good recollections in this poem.
Reviewed by 000 000 (Reader)
Reviewed on February 23, 2009
Strange how things we see...hear or smell, give us memories of certain times.
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Edwin
(((HUGS))) and much love, your friend in Tx., Karen Lynn. :D
The smell of sawdust always makes me miss home.
Cryssa :~)
Sincerely,
Regino
(((HUGS))) and love, Karla.
Fee
I was a boy. I can still smell the fresh sawdust. -gene.