Those hands,
roughened,
with nicks and scars innumerable,
kissed by a thousand splinters
slowly make the world beneath them
perfect.
Casting off with chisel and plane
the rough bark,
the weathered grit,
the bruises of growing,
something comes, new
and unseen.
What lies beneath?
Golden lines marked by living?
Rings singing with age?
A piece of long-forgotten nail,
it’s presence a red echo
of its prior self?
Below all that lies the truth
of the wood.
Ringlets fall to the ground
translucently glowing,
a soft fire.
Without those hands
these would be shade,
found walking sticks,
or pillars to God
but never masts,
or tables,
or goblets
to hold wine and blood.
Crafted, as was mankind,
this work is good work,
for as God was a potter,
His son was a carpenter.
Those hands,
roughened,
smooth the plank,
turn the leg,
and with the greatest of love
and attention
sand and smooth
until the hardest branch
is as smooth
as the most innocent cheek.
Those hands,
roughened,
feel with chipped nails and calluses
a softness they long ago lost,
a small sacrifice perhaps
to gently bring forth
the best and most beautiful
of all they touch,
long hidden from view.
Even the branch
would never have suspected
the glowing grain
it long held deep within.