The pervasive portion of smell among rough wet dust

A brittle file with a wooden handle, antique

Distressed adjunct of countless confrontations with intimacy

 

Probably not Poplar;

Think Walnut, or Cherry

Brazilian Rosewood, freshly cut and smelling of roses

 

Hard-grained iron like the wood that demands discernment

And devotion commensurate to its value

Accepted, au fait, advertently

 

Plane-gouged, crack-checked periphery a predecessor

Of this Journeyman’s edge-worn hands, held just so

Scarred by time and slipped chisel

 

Tongue and groove, rabbet, the precise tail of doves

the block plane fairs all joinery

Celebrates the figured wood, listening and tapping music

 

He feels the drive of the grain and the longing

For a fair piece, satin skin caressed by worn fingers

And the hidden heartwood kerf, chamfering

 

Edges for a fitting event, contour curve against slick curl

Pushing the wet wood into a sinuous crescent, accepting

And rejoicing in this merging of lives, of being transformed

 

Forever wondering if he is sharp enough at last

Forever delighting in the instant, he realizes his effort:

Of revealing surprising medullary rays from a broad-leaved bole

 

Oh, I am not done

I am not finished

I am ever finishing

 

©2017 eolon