When all this is over
I shall take up woodwork.
I will let my forceful life
Rest within the grain
Of wood seasoned
In the steady rain.
I will gather what is left
Of the forest and fashion
Fallen stuff into something,
Maybe nothing, but hope
That this is not the point.
I will shape a diminishment
Around small shards and shapes,
A calm diminuendo within
The hush of fallen leaves
And bare trees transfigured
In the dying sun.
And I shall live
Within the lines of my shallow palms
That can only hold as much
As they will then;
A saw, a blade, perhaps a lathe,
Indeed as much as they do now.
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1 comment:
I read this and searched my palms for a splinter or a callus caused by the bulbus handle of a man's plane.
I want those signs on my heart.
I want the quiet life that is carved out here. I want to sit in the rain, or maybe kick a ball in a storm with a friend in a park.
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