In The Grain- a carpenter poem, probably

Thinking about all the interesting things I have seen in wood grain. Almost all of them are buried behind walls and below floors or in a roof somewhere.

I thought this poem was going to be a deeper exploration of character but it resolutely stayed on the surface and kept skimming along. I was sitting in a cathedral somewhere in Portugal last week and saw a very handsome stork in the grain.

Took this picture outside the church and it has storks!

                     In The Grain

              I could populate a zoo
                 and a bestiary too
                with all the animals
               I’ve seen in the grain.
          There was once a strange
               and gargantuan fish
            engulfing a town square
                or was it a shipyard
               in complete disarray
              and very nearly about
             to worsen considerably.

                  That fine panoply
                of impending drama
            sits in a wall somewhere,
                 behind a bookcase,
        the perfect unseen backdrop
              to the rows of stories 
                     lined up front
                   and all of it just
                sitting quietly there
                       in the grain.

                  Some of the men
            who’ve worked with me
                could be there too,
              tending those sheep
           with the unfortunate legs
                and peculiar heads.
       The price for their immortality
                is quite small, I think;
                    a bulbous nose,
      a torso twisted to make an arch.

             Nearby, a perfect foot
           steps near a single hand
   in supplication, how odd, pleading
      for a small square of sandpaper,
              as all hands should do,
       to render his setting smoother
         and a bit more comfortable
                       in the grain.