They are known, the techniques, the rules

gleaned by trial and error over centuries

from diverse cultures by millions of craftsmen.

 

But, this time, I could not mar this flow of grain

gifted from a giant red oak stricken down;

could not deface streaks of red hues

of stomata streams painting the truth

of ice and fire, abundance and deprivation;  

of hard times and good of a hundred years. 

 

I could not chop it up

into stiles

and rails

and panels:

narrow boards arranged

in alternating cups

and glued

and clamped

and sanded

and sealed;

just to obtain a stillness;

an entity that could never twist and breathe.

 

I lay the boards, in their order,

to picture a whole, a life lived;

a chance to speak after death.

 

In summer when I suck the humidity away

to cool and condition air for my comfort,

the doors move; warp a bit, opening a crack,

emitting the dark which whispers tales.

They cup, creeping to complete the circle

from which they was sawn,

seeking the completion every creature knows.