Before the trucks, before the crew,
before the foreman's coffee cools —
the shop exhales its sawdust prayer,
a psalm of planes and well-worn tools.
The bench stands patient, scarred and true,
each mark a lesson, each groove a year.
The light comes low through eastern glass
and turns the shavings gold and clear.
I run my hand across the top —
white oak, quarter-sawn, still rough —
and feel the grain rise under skin
like something breathing, warm enough.
No blueprint yet. No client's need.
Just wood and quiet and the smell
of yesterday's cut pine, still sweet,
still hanging in the air like a bell.
This is the hour I build for free.
This is the hour the work is mine.
Before the noise, before the nails —
I trace the grain and call it fine.