He's hanging on,
to walls and frames and days,
grasping at the certainty of wood,
his longest trust and truth,
Grain and knot and pith.

Grappling his way
on through the night walks,
in the heaviness of mist and howl
to claw back the clarity,
dawn and dirt and job.

The inside hammers on,
a stubbornness knot
To confound any blade.
Go wet the tea,
I'm not done here yet.