I find again in tinkering,
The deep humanities therein,
A strange new craft we find ourselves,
Within - though we the same as old.

This is the colour of an artful life,
This is the hidden play of all the years,
To make and giggle with each hand,
So firmly resting on your tools.

The date clicks into an awaited sum,
Stacking days across the gaps of months,
Like bridges over chasms of sand,
Folding dunes until they, unsettled,
Play their cavities like the gaping mouths of violins,
Bowing out the gargantuan cries of time,
Until the spans of peaks are reduced to meager nullity:
The desert laid flat.

Walking places less the same,
I mold the streets to memory frames,
And listen to the urban sprawl,
I've been here twice or not at all,
The air rolls over smoke filled streets,
That open wide in midday breeze,
And echo with my quickened steps.