The Woodworker

To wake the sparrow and nuthatch
from the oak stump, he hums
in key with the handsaw.

Never a word about his wife,
a carving he made and married.
She took his light touch personally,

envied the flaws his fingers
savored on others as unique.
With stolen chisels and his mallet

she hobbled into the deep woods
and made herself into a harp,
even circled the head of a feral

cat around and around to use
its intestines as strings.
Driftwood was chosen for tone,

pinegum for glue and perfume.
While she dries in the day,
the woodworker thrives in new grain.

The knots remind him of his wife:
an imperfection nature granted
his callused hands to clinch

with salt or leave disturbed.

Copyright © 2004 Michael Graber All rights reserved
from The Last Real Medicine Show
Turning Point
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission