Sawdust and Sundays

The garage still smells like cut pine Radio on, low Just how you kept it The table saw would whine through Sunday mornings after church You'd blow the sawdust off and run your thumb along the grain — twice, always twice The oak table in the dining room, the porch steps, the birdhouse Half this house came out of those two hands Other people buy their furniture We grew up inside of yours Sawdust and Sundays — that's the cloth you're cut from, Dad Pencil on your ear, the ballgame turned down low Everything you built is still holding up this family You never were a talker You said it all in oak Your apron's on the nail, your handwriting on the lumber Measurements for something you didn't get to make I found your pencil in the pocket, worn down to a stub Some men leave their mark in stone — you left yours in pine Other people buy their furniture We grew up inside of yours Sawdust and Sundays — that's the cloth you're cut from, Dad Pencil on your ear, the ballgame turned down low Everything you built is still holding up this family You never were a talker You said it all in oak This morning I went out there, plugged the old saw in It started right up — of course it did, you kept it right My boy held the flashlight steady, watching close Twice along the grain, I showed him Twice. Always twice. Sawdust and Sundays — that's the cloth you're cut from, Dad Pencil on your ear, the ballgame turned down low Everything you built is still holding up this family You never were a talker You said it all in oak Radio low, sawdust hanging in the window light Sunday, Dad It still smells like you're home