The Hundred Sounds of the Wood

I would sleep better knowing I was near to
The hundred sounds of wood
Wood carved, cut, sawed, splintered
Soft wood snapped underfoot,
Hard wood cracked by a baseball
Dry wood popping in the fire
Wet wood creaking in ships and trees.
Brown palms thumping on hollow wood
Wooden sticks drumming against yellow hides.
The squeaking of axels and watermills
Door hinges that sing like violins
Or knuckles that rap expectantly on the surface
The sound of a question, or the sound of no answer.
Beautiful wood, scratching patiently under the edge
Of a penknife, wood tearing and crumpling on the floor
In a heap of discarded symphonies.
Wood chips and chunks tumbling into the dust bin
The sound of the evening’s work concluded,
Tinkling like bells or the drumming of rain.
Take me back to the days of wood
When the world was more like a great tree
Where we ate and slept and drank in the wood.
I lean back on the wicker, and wonder what might have been,
And drift, ever so dreamfully, into the echoes
Of the would.

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