Hand Crafted

Suppose you took a rest from making tables,

apprentice maker, as earlier from worlds;

and in that little Sabbath you took wood,

whose seed you coded at the roots of time,

You parted its smooth grain as once you parted

firmaments, yielding to your shaping blade,

forming a dove, your fellow before aeons…

Suppose you show it to your patient father.

It is admired and stroked and put somewhere.

Years pass. The family move away. The shop

decays and falls. The dove is lost in rubble.

States come and go, make love and war, till now

Palestinian and Israeli face each other…

Suppose a Hebrew shell or Arab rocket blasts

the old foundations, scattering their stones…

Suppose a child slides a hand into a gap...

Suppose she feels smooth beech wood, touches wings...