A Slip of the Hand

April 18 2017

Choose seasoned wood

that's soft, and clear of knots.

The granular strop-strop-strop

of a finely honed edge

on whetted stone.

Cut along the grain

angling away.

The thumb's broad callused pad

fine-tuning the blade,

muscle memory

feeling by way

of pressure, cant

depth.

Shavings curl off

in long smooth strips,

leaving a dark patina

of sweat and skin

from the carver's warm grip.

From all the people

who have handled it since.

Fingering, palming, passing it on.

Stroking its fine-grained finish.

Holding it up to the eye, and intentionally turning

so every side is seen;

the smooth surface

of burnished wood,

the play of light and dark.

One constructs by subtraction,

the mind's eye

conjuring negative space.

The way a growing brain

prunes its wiring,

until the ultimate hardening

of function and form.

Undone

by a slip of the hand

aberration of eye,

a fleeting lapse of mind.

Like red ochre paint

on the wall of a cave

too deep for natural light,

a length of found wood

somehow turned

to an enduring work of art.

A nameless carver

unschooled in his craft,

who never thought

he would leave his mark

on posterity.