You ask me, love, to build a potting shed.
A friend lets me rummage through heaps of raw
material. “My ruined barn” he says.
I gather up my square, my chalk, my saw,
and scrounge for weathered planks, for grain that’s straight
with no ungainly warps, cracks, rot, or knots.
My measure of the whole, each board must mate
before I cut and fit with care and thought.
A potting shed contains but one concern:
earth’s elements, their smells. It’s your escape.
I craft two small windows, then hang a fern
above the door between: a face’s shape.
Best wood, best order, from an old barn’s tilt.
For you, a gift, and how this sonnet’s built.


© by Eric Forsbergh.
Used with the author’s permission.