Work at fifty

Well, it's not a limerick, and it's not humorous, and it's not about politics -- but it is what it is:

I lie in bed. The house shakes just a bit;
A logging truck speeds north to Canada.
A load of spruce goes forth. When it’s sawn true,
In time, as two-by-fours, it will return.
Just down the road, a grader sucks a tit
Of land and wears it down. A penumbra
Of roads and houses soon will dot the view
And take a lengthy chance with nature’s stern
Embrace. The race to leave a cellar hole
Is one my eighteen-fifty house will win.
Despite my level best to skirt the rules,
The plumb will always skew, just like my goal
To leave a measured mark – to say I’ve been.
I rise; I put on clothes; I find my tools.