I told myself I’d build a place
time must struggle to erase—
A place—by virtue of design—
to stand the test and still be mine.
A vision formed up keen in mind,
but time would tell where I was blind.
I dug down through the loam enough—
through all the rotting, buggy stuff—
past where others left their mark,
to where the earth was cold and dark…
and there, I laid a footing—sound—
of massive stones on bearing ground.
The work felt good; the days were long—
for I was young and very strong,
while days that passed with every ton
turned years with my foundation done.
On this, I built up walls of brick—
mortared, tied and very thick;
and every brick I laid with care—
for structure level, plumb and square—
to bear such timber by its name—
as joist or rafter—in the frame.
These I milled from oak I felled,
then dried what seasons’ thirst had swelled,
‘til each was straight and true and right—
then cut to fit and nailed in tight.
I wondered—weary—late one day,
if time would place me past halfway.
I planked the floors in Burmese teak,
so nowhere would my flooring creak;
then sheathed the roof in yellow pine—
spiked to frame and joined by spline—
to join the rafters in a plane,
as none alone should take the strain.
By now my house was very strong,
but time kept passing all along.
And though my house was very stout,
it wouldn’t keep the weather out.
I quarried, cleaved and cut the slate
for shingle courses lapped and straight,
which shed to copper gutters—peened,
then drained to leaders, joined and screened.
I framed up window jambs and sash
no hurricane could bend or bash,
then fashioned glass for every sash
of molten sand and soda ash,
then sized and cut and glazed each pane
to weather wind and pelting rain.
For doors, I joined up stiles and rails
with mortised tenons, glue and nails,
and straps of iron bolted through—
so every door stayed square and true.
And time had watched without a care—
as time has ample time to spare,
but I felt I were in a race
and time were giving fervent chase…
and challenging my steady pace
as worthy in both time and space.
And while I’d almost had enough,
my house inside was still quite rough.
I pushed to plaster all the walls,
and painted all the rooms and halls;
and tiled in where the water seeks
to creep and slowly find its leaks.
Now, my eyes and legs seemed used
to keep advancing time amused,
and wouldn’t work as hard for me,
as I was growing old, you see.
But still, I polished every nook,
lamenting all the time it took—
until the end, when I was done—
and realized that time had won;
for though my house might never fall,
it took my time; it took it all.
Tricked, I thought I’d right regret
that all would surely soon forget
a life who lived to build for naught—
who lived to learn a lesson taught
by time—the grim, deceitful thief
who stole in seeking final grief,
when—instead—the notion cleared!
Nothing is as I had feared!
Looking on, I realized…
I hadn’t lost what I had prized.
I may be timber, brick and stone,
but I shall never be alone;
for, when the children skip along
my bones sing out delighted song;
when winter brings a freezing storm,
I am home and I am warm;
and when the family falls asleep,
safe around them do I keep.
I told myself I’d build a place
that time must struggle to erase.
With time, there never was a chase,
I never lost a single race.
It’s just a very simple case
of me, with now a different face.
It wasn’t that my time was spare;
it’s simply how I chose to share.
Time sure has a funny way
of saving for the final say.
June 2019
John P. Turner III
Turner's Words 