Who Painted The Window Frames Poem by JAMES T. ADAIR

When things are built with pride
The work speaks for itself
With whispers felt by those with heart
To notice the craftsman did their part
There is exaltation
In things humble
The work shows care
and consideration
Not lost on those who lend a moment
of hallowed concentration
It brings a lonely heart
a bit of excitation
to feel another's contribution
brings a bit of adoration
that in an otherwise meaningless life is some consolation
But I wonder who failed to notice
the handiwork of the skilled carpenter
who showed such lack of knowing
such lack of care and consideration
to paint the sash shut
in hurried obligation
who, rendered what was done with care
to such degradation
they missed so much
and I feel a sense of humiliation
of anger and frustration
A carpenter somewhere from a lost generation
turns in his grave, at the graveness of the situation
I scrape the layers of paint with a knife's blade
undoing the carelessness that somone's rush made
And slowly the sash does free
the way it was built to be
and the window slides in the frame
I restore it's counterweights so it move again
up and down; it now moves the same
undoing the thoughtless shame
Who painted the window frames shut?
I wish I knew their name
they failed to see the touch of care
and passed on to others the blame
whomever painted the window frame shut
They missed the meaning of it all
Instead of care they left a stain
But as for me, when I work I'll take an extra bit of time
and treat things as if they were mine
a moment spent in care
may one day be the only evidence
that you were ever there
Put your heart in every little thing