Two hundred years ago, plus two score,
A craftsman walked through a forest.
He carefully chose the wood.
When it was ready to use,
Some, he turned on a lathe,
Some he chiseled carefully,
He shaped the seat.
He cut his holes with a hand drill,
He bent the back and fitted the spindles.
The arms he cut and shaped with scrollwork.
He carefully sanded it until it nearly shone and applied the finish.
He ran his hands over each piece.
In two hundred and forty years, no one has received a splinter.
Today, I ran my hands over the arms and mentally thanked him as I sat.
About the Creator
Natalie Wilkinson
Writing. Woven and Printed Textile Design. Architectural Drafting. Learning Japanese. Gardening. Not necessarily in that order.
IG: @maisonette _textiles
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Final Call
She flings her arms around my neck and squeezes me like she’s never going to let me go. My head spins as her lips brush against my cheek. She must be able to feel my heart thumping in my chest. I shuffle backwards and ram my hands into my coat pockets, watching her reach down and heave the rucksack across her shoulders.
By Caroline Cravena day ago in Fiction
Comments (2)
Now that's what I call quality! Loved your poem!
A nice tribute to true craftsmanship. Well done!