I mourn a dead friend, like myself, a good carpenter. br -Pablo Neruda about César Vallejo br br I looked at the book. br 'It will stand,' I thought. br Not a palace br built by a newspaper czar, br nor a mud hovel br that the sea will soften, br but a good house of words br near the sea br with everything plumb. br That is the most I can ask. br br I have cut the wood myself br from my own forests, br I have sanded it smooth br with the grain. br I have left knotholes br for the muse to whistle through br -old siren that she is. br br At least the roof does not leak. br & the fireplace is small br but it draws. br The wind whips the house br but it stands. br & the waves lick br the pilings br with their tongues br but at least they do not suck me br out to sea. br The sea is wordless br but it tries to talk to us. br We carpenters are also translators. br We build with sounds, with whispers & with wind. br We try to speak the language of the sea. br br We want to build to last br yet change forever. br We want to be as endless as the sea. br & yet she mocks us br with her barnacle & rust stains; br she tells us what we build will also fall. br br Our words are grains of sand, br our walls are wood, br our windowpanes are sprayed with solemn salt. br We whisper, as we build, 'Forever please,' br -by which we mean at least for thirty years.