We get into the rhythm of the work,
pneumatic nail gun and the air compressor,
the scratch of asphalt shingles laid down against each other,
the soothing arc of our repeated motion

It smells like blossoms when we stop and notice,
the air is warm enough, cool enough too —
while many pieces of our lives are scattered,
this work is something we can do

The birds are taking up their evening chorus,
smells of people’s dinners join the breeze,
it feels like it’s a mode we could continue
for another couple years at least —
could be the course we take, the path we climb
unless, until, we’re lifted out of time.

©Wendy Mulhern
May 21, 2018