There was a time when my hands were strong,
unlimited were their movements,
I grasped at life with a fervent knife.

The fingers now are no longer nimble,
the knuckles, bumpy and sore.
Within their bent forms, I recall days of
creation, where wood would be given form.

Within the palm would be cradled a chisel,
a twist of the wrist and an applied force,
the fibres would peacefully and willingly curl,
falling in a productive shower to the floor.

Animal spirit released from the grain,
Aspen, Oak, Butternut, not all, are the same.
For the wood would speak to me,
of what I should carve, it would let me see.

The Winter sings it’s cold shivering song,
time to stay indoors now that Autumn is gone.
Time to open my box of knives,
and, with a stiffness of hands, somehow I feel alive.

With the block beckoning, the fingers begin their dance.
A notch here, a wedge there with always a chance
the wood may split.
A mind of it’s own it has, when intention and
will are given to fate.

It is up to the wood to have the final say,
It is as much the conductor, as I am this day.
What I will carve is never sure,
I meditate in thought, a silent voice ensues,
That which I create, that which is brought forth,
Will, always in the end, endure.


https://poetree.ca/post/64dc19f486b9d4f481b4a562

Author
Stefano