The woodworker
grabs his workman tools,
engraving with
a swift twist of frame,
starts to chisel,
lathe and shave,
until the pieces
start to resemble humanity.
Then he starts to assemble
the anatomy, throwing away
the remnants of failed artistry.
He
sculpts
a torso of willow,
It embodies sorrow.
It weeps,
across weeds
in sallow hollows.
A floating shallow wisp
starts to follow
through this
darkening forest
of thought
into which
we're embarking.
He cuts out
arms of oak,
Legs of maple,
sturdy, steady,
like his workman’s table.
He shaves away
thin strands of walnut,
to give the perfect finish
to the standing foot.
The woodworker
carves
a face of elm.
Eyes of pine
stare
upon a realm divine,
into space,
where he wishes
he could feel,
touch and taste.
the deep galactic beeches
Thanks for reading
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