One morning time trips a reel
and I’m confronted with
the object I will become
carpentered for eternity.
Here the wood’s grain
the carve and gouge
that felt like time
but was merely my body.
How little it belongs
to me even the face
I’ve inherited from a hundred
mothers and fathers.
The grove beneath
vast and humble waits
her arms so huge
she has built a house for
billions and has word left
over for bookshelves, pews,
for tools and decoration.