Man Cut In Wood 2 Poem by Denis Mair

The gentle grain of wood remains in sunlight,
Close-packed secret life, wrapped in bark
Holds aloft ten thousand leaves to tremble in the breeze.
The roots make sweetness to feed the bark
To grow a thicker column of the gentle blond wood,
Standing over a clear streak of water in the breeze,
Only to grow in that place, never out of harm's way,
Suddenly sawn down and split, exposed but blind to the sun.
Await the woodworker who cuts a contour to lead the line of sight
Use sandpaper to catch a gleam from slanting rays, rub in sun-gleam with linseed oul.
Grain of the woodworker's muscles continues to flex in sunlight.

But not everyone can work in this charmed circle.
Blundering forces divided and lost from each other
Stumble into each other and throw up edges,
Invasive purposes sharpened to sawteeth,
Screech and whine, silent scream like mandrake pulled up at midnight.
Workpiece not held steady, bucking up from the saw,
Blocky shape hacked out by repetition.
Man cut in wood, laid open and blind to the sun,
Flung out arms akimbo, exposed
Without finish in merciless weather.
Man standing like post takes stock of himself,
Rigid shape of body, poor arms that must stretch out,
Hands flopping like lost crows,
Stretched in blind sun, heat-stroke of clouds and lightning,
Tongues of lightning snaking up the man's trunk.
Fissures opened by dryness make inroads for borers,
In drizzling season, wetness stays and grows fungus
Water beads gather with pureness of tears.
Fine grain sweeter than walnut meat goes down to decay.
Man cut in wood, this is a slow emergency!
The passing crowd laments in thousand-toned sighs.
Red light, urgency, warming signal flash!
Send for a carpenter in an ambulance.
Man cut, won't somebody help?
Somebody help the poor soul that wants to help another.
Imagine life in another's planar section,
Always longitudinal to this grain,
Tubules always conducting the juice of spring somewhere else.

Craft the whorled grain that was gnashed apart by other teeth.
Feel sorry for the flopping crows, give them work to complete,
Transform their dire arc to the ballet of swallows.
There is more than wood to this wood:
The tender curve of line, the shape traced out,
The man is right there with the wood, where else?
Were he to drift away, who then would make shapes
To teach the eye how wood may remain in the sun?
At every point it is love that nails him to the crosstree of decay.
Cut in wood: a man- -cuts- -himself- -a- -woodcut.
Be glad for pinpoints of light in the darkness of wood's grain!
Be glad that he hangs back from conflagration!
Be glad for shapes that declare all phases of sunlight!
The crosstree stands in the weather, words drift by like clouds,
This praise will continue, if only the thread can be found!