Construction

The hammer voices went on and on
telling the fields that the barn begun
would flourish under the winter sun.

The fields were frozen, the hills were bare,
the hammer music climbed the air
and echoes fell down stair by stair.

Rafters, when the time came, sprang
into their places. Storm clouds hang
over the ridgepole but we sang.

We nail and sing through wind and snow
as if we thought that ten below
is just the climate where barns grow.

The only visitors roundabout
are crows who view our work with doubt,
as critics do, they raise a shout.

What are you doing? they seem to say,
building is not the fashion today,
the wind is blowing the other way.