December 9, 2019


Wood transforms itself under my touch

Whether it be hard olive or mountain pine,

Something I never questioned much,

Belonging to a carpenter’s long line.

I love the scent, the texture and the grain

Revealed by my steady and knowing hand

As I make things both elegant and plain,

Polishing with oil and smoothing with sand.

When I first saw her, troubled lass, and lost

Already big with child and destiny

I loved and married her, there was no cost,

I reckoned she would grow close to me.

And these workman’s hands must now I know,

Help this miracle to thrive and grow.

Tags: poetry, poet, writer, poems

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