S A W D U S T
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 work bench 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. [ by: Connie Faust, Copyright © 2009 (beracah1@evenlink.com) -- submitted by: Connie Faust ]Inspirational Poems SkyWriting.Net All Rights Reserved. |