old wood

Sometimes I’m scraping down the paint, and after
breaking through the couple of layers of white or
cream, or even brown, I come upon the wood:
the grain may swirl or curve gently; some traces
of paint linger, complementing the complex design
of nature and cuts employed by the woodworker.
The process opens up the scent of the wood and
the paint. The joints or the cut someone made so
long ago are still there for me to enjoy, much as I
relish the scent of fresh cut wood, be it cherry,
oak or maple, pine or basswood, wall or furniture—
it all invites me to caress it, to take it into me
through nerve endings in my skin. This nourishes me,
I feel my feet firmly on the ground, my heart beats,
my lungs fill; and I dream of holding a block plane
in my hands, drawing it along a mature cherry plank,
and seeing the long single curl peel away behind it.
I want to make a stool or a table with hand tools
that I sharpen myself on an oil stone, and I want
someone who loves wood to scrape it down carefully
can understand what I made and how well I made it.