MTrip
Well-known member
In the afternoon, the sun beats the patio
Chisels, mallet, a saw you can’t get at the hardware store
Metallic ringing of the workbench
The chips fall & the sawdust flies
Denim shirt, do-rag, long pants to block the sun,
Keep my pale head from turning beet red
Sweating in the glare, sawdust in my eyes, not caring
Maker’s progress the only thing
For it is all I have left.
In the heart of the night, early in the morning
On the patio, bent over the workbench farrier’s rasp in hand
Waking up before midnight, only then is there steam in the boiler
Heavy grinding sound of rasp chewing wood, almost rhythmic
Gusts of wind, just cold enough for comfort
Not yet a cane, not square stock anymore, becoming
The tools remind me of a prediction:
The knife slides & the shavings fall like bodies
The rasp & file bringing forth impermanence.
Sawdust & splinters fall on the deck, on my BDU pants
(sans pockets, pant cuffs trimmed & sewed)
Faded hoodie, a pirate/burglar who never breaks in.
Do as much as you can before your brain starts turning again & tiredness settles in your bones…
Flip the drawknife over, sweep up the shaft
Aim the chisel & push, little shavings like leaves
Shavings & shards, sunrise & sunset
It goes bevel down, bevel up, angled or straight, one tool so many ways.
Rasps & files chewing it away, stoned razor-keen, peeling & splintering,
The surface goes down, the first machine,
Spirit from the union of tool & man,
Two thousand years, how it always ran.
Time to quit, it’s 4:35 & the lower back starts bitching again
May 19th, 2014
