The woodwork

I tried to carve but my hands were too bruised and weak.
Traveled so far the language I cannot speak.
Stayed long enough for buildings to be raised from the cold hard ground.
What once was lost for years will now be found.
Trees and animals have fallen too close for comfort.
Birthed from the inside and still hung on like a determined mut.
My stomach grew wise while my liver fails to try.
I wonder in the sun yet in the autumn I hide.
I'm part of the woodwork, I'm part of the clock.
Yet I think of fate and destiny as a kind of good luck.
What is my salvation, my paradise, the light?
Rather what is my wrong and what is my right?
It seems to be a feeling I hold on to so tight.
But maybe it's the quantity of our expected delights.