A Wood Concerto

A symphony of shavings,
the conductor, the carver.

The carver chooses his steel wand carefully,
approaches the podium confidently.
His score lay upon the wood
etched in lines of carbon, waiting.

As the artist places the gouge on the wood
it makes a short resonating knock.
The maple wood sits proper
and is ready to begin.

Crash! The mallet strikes the gouge.
The music has begun.

He listens to the cuts,
feels the music in the shave,
and smells the wood as steel glides over the grains,
like the bow over strings stirring up dust of resin.
Though it begins with a climax,
it quickly condescends into softer, quieter work.

Every stroke is taken with precision.
He guides the piece around the grains;
like the solo flute caressing the top of the concerto,
cutting a crisp divide between the background and the frills.

A parting slice and a curling shave, quasi finito,
soon the audience will marvel at this,
what the master had envisioned
when the score was just lines,
the steel wand lay flat,
the grain, still…