Craftsman Dreams: Bungalow Rhythms

Lyrics

It's not a song, not really.
It's a rhythm in the woodgrain.
A cadence set in brick and rafter tail.

Walk down St. Charles Avenue.
See the rooflines, low and long, holding down the sky.
Overhanging eaves throw a deep shadow.
A porch, wide as a welcome.
Held up by columns, tapered square, like hands on their knees.
Solid. Simple.
This was the dream, you see. The Craftsman's dream.

And the rhythm repeats.
Bungalow, bungalow, then a break in the beat.
A visual melody, written in timber and glass.
The heart pine floors still holding the last century's weight.
A quiet blueprint for a certain kind of life.
These bungalow rhythms.

Then the Foursquare answers back.
A sturdy cube, two stories high, capped with a hipped roof.
A simple box, sent by the mail.
A page from a Sears, Roebuck catalog, given breath.
Inside, the same warm pine. The same promise.
A different shape for the same good light.
Another fine copy.

And the rhythm repeats.
Bungalow, Foursquare, a steady, grounded beat.
A visual melody, written in timber and glass.
The heart pine floors still holding the last century's weight.
A quiet blueprint for a certain kind of life.
These Craftsman dreams.

Upstairs, you can still find the sleeping porches.
Screened-in rooms for the humid Georgia nights, before the cold air came.
Built by men whose names the deeds don't mention.
The carpenters, their names gone to dust,
but their ninety-degree angles hold true.
Their saw cuts are still the reason the rain stays out.

The rhythm is slower now.
The porches still breathe at dusk.
The foundations haven't forgotten the weight they were meant to carry.
Still haven't forgotten.