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Open Poetry #29
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With All Wood
| Open Poetry #29 |
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With All Wood |
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Old_Shoe_New_Laces Junior Member
since 2003-06-16
Posts 31 |
It happens this way, cherry, oak, pine an unpolished heart rough, jagged something catches a small fractal it enters the flesh, into the foot, the hand, under a nail. You feel it in the day, in the night, beneath the skin when you walk or while you write, with each breath, each pulse, too deep to remove, too irritable to ignore. You are a carpenter and know your trade well, know wood by its texture, grain, color, by its smell. You’ve built seventy eight chairs, twenty seven tables, thirty six dressers, nine china cabinets, and such an abundance of hand carved figurines: cowboys, buffalo, owls eagles, cranes; that you have lost track. Your hands are dry, the chisels dull, saws don’t cut like they use to. The house was never built. The splinters find the areas where calluses have yet to form. They get in. It hurts to hold the wood, hurts not to hold the wood. “It’s arthritis,” you tell yourself, “caused by the splinters, the wood, and it will never go away.” |
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Sunshine
Administrator
Member Empyrean
since 1999-06-25
Posts 63354Listening to every heart |
It hurts to hold the wood, hurts not to hold the wood. ~*~ For several personal reasons, I'm keeping this one. Thank you, B.A. |
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