.

.

Look! Massive stately towers, felled,
For usefulness, not props prematurely cut.
See there! Their quartered stacks,
Soon, fine furniture shall be.

Many shaping, jointing, for our needs,
Working warm sinew and tool;
Around drawers, legs of elegance or plain,
Else cunningly supported otherwise.

Considering now, the drawing tight of many parts,
Of bead and butt, flute and reed, and mitred care,
Then, flushing smooth, with steel and grit,
The drawborings     of ways unseen.

Mindful too, matching cuts, wafers of wetted burrs,
On panels coated with melted crystals
From creature's bones pervading disapprovingly
My memory's senses as I write.

The silken curls that rounded into folds,
Cut by wide sharpened blades,
Rising up into soft scented fountains,
Blending beautifully in whites, yellows and reds.

Making their escape past moulded steels,
Encased in wooden blocks held tight with wedges,
Gathered like drifts of gold and snow,
Shot out from the mouths of roaring monsters.

Musing still, of tools belonging to cleverer ways,
From chests of treasured devices,
Stored within secret drawers for the experienced,
Entering in the play, craftily cutting another way.

With steels that often scarred the whetted stone,
For bright edges against harder grains,
Much less for the white, softer kinds.
Memory fades, but the written word keeps them safe.