A Memory of Wood

My hands have an affinity for wood and always have. Aside from the several hundred splinters, we have always gotten along well.

This is Douglas Fir from the mountain behind our cabin in Colorado, the same piece before and after.  Real tight grain, about 40 years for 2" in width.

 
                 A Memory of Wood

           My hands have a memory 
               of the wood that has
              passed through them.
                 They can still feel
             that small Doug Fir log
               with the slow wiggle
                  taking fifty years 
              to ease around a rock,
            allowing a curved spoon
                     to come of it.

         Each day new wood arrives
              and I greet them with,
                   “I know you!” or
       “I see you’ve had a hard time.
               You are wind shook
                   and the beetles
              have been biting you.
            Come, rest here and be
        looked upon for generations,
                 marveling at your
                   hard won grain.”

                   Some wood has
            an undeniable stoutness.
          We shook hands on a deal 
            for walking sticks to last 
     one full step beyond my last one
          and handrails as guides for
                the unsteady ahead.

            My hands can still recall
                  our first blocks in
                    our clumsy grip,
               when we first beheld 
          the lines of time radiating,
            waving at us, beckoning.
               We saw rivers, clouds 
                   and knotty heron.
  We held hands across the seasons
    and we made memories indelible.

Because of the curve, this one had to be a right handed spoon and so I could put finger grips into it.  It was very handy and comfortable to work with.  I made one pot of cassoulet with it, to test it out and then handed it off to a lady who was a real cook.