Woodcraft

No profile graven by whim-spindling will

Am I, nor do I guide with measured gauge

The hand to gouge and tool conflicting planes

To round conformity; I can but flinch,

Splinter spewing, crack useless in the cinch

To lie unfinished, or endure the strain.

Vice-clenched into mortality, for assuage

I long to float free, softly spill

Through limitless sands. But driftwood so

Rough-smoothed against creation cannot see

The joy of tree God-crafted, nor know

That life is only pain-lathed into beauty.