WOOD WORK
Someone
Used a skilled eye
Searching for the ideal height
And thickness of the tree;
Detatched...
Indifferent...
Cut it down,
His brow sweat dripping
On the wounded pulp.
Someone
Dragged it back to town,
Behind a team,
To where another
Split the beams
Right for support...
Not flimsy
Or too short...
And free of cracks
That might give way too soon.
Someone
Laid two pieces on the ground
Then wound them
At the junctions...
Tight with heavy rope
To sure their hold.
It was a job for three or four
To hoist it upright...
Finished, and in place.
Someone
Gave the final word
To call it
What it had become,
A cross...
Fit for a king.
Sandra Peasley Bush
