The Unfinished Dream

The scent of sawdust, a sweet, familiar call,

whispers of childhood, where we built it all.

A stack of plywood, rough edges and grain,

a fragment of memory, a ghost of the pain.

Someone grabs a sheet, with a mission in mind,

while I’m lost in a moment, the warmth intertwined.

Nostalgia wraps round me like a weathered old quilt,

but dreams left uncut, are still waiting to wilt.