Load Bearing

The wet snow has a heavy, silent way

of leaning on the things I tried to frame.

I heard the rafters groan and start to sway,

as if the wood remembered its old name.

The rough-cut pine still bears the darkened stain

where grease and sweat transferred from palm to grain.

I stood there in the cold and felt the strain

of joints I forced together in the rain.

It’s bowed and tired, a sagging, graying box

that’s held my shovel and a rusted chain.

I could go out and wedge in a few blocks,

or let it settle back into the plain.