I am not a builder of bridges, Though you may be fooled by my handiwork. In my house you will find No hammers, no adzes, no saws, No rope, no cables, no logs. Just some sketches Of a narrow enough river That I'll have to cross to get from here To the place where I've been once before. It's worth the crossing Whether done wet or dry, But since I've been waking to frost on my window And visible breath, I'd prefer a way that does not involve Wading or swimming or floating. That's why I've been drawing These simple spans on Blank pieces of paper I've found in the backs of old books Where they expected someone like me To jot down a few notes. I am not a builder of bridges, I was never meant to be, But if you want to cross a river, You have to cut down a few trees.