His rhythmic strikes,
and dawn’s harsh glare
arrive at once,
a shrill alarm.
Relentlessly,
he hammers,
plumbs,
exposing crumbs
of wood and grubs.
His point is clear:
how sharp of him
to make it so precisely,
at facade’s expense.
©2020 All Rights Reserved
Barbara Froman 
Fabulous! I love this piece.
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Thank you! I’m honored!
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Beautiful poem, Barbara. Is that your photo, too?
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Thank you, Nan. No, I found it on one of the public domain sites. 🙂
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