Deep carvings into the surface,
People seem to pay
More attention to the impressions
Than to the wood itself.

Yet the wood is dense & durable;
Reliable, trusty.
Though prone to dents,
A beautiful stain
Made up of life's chapters
Colors all sides.

It is no object,
But a living thing,
Born of a tree
That sprouted from the earth
Out of the dirt & worms.

It shot up towards the sky & planets
Crying out for-
Aiming for the great bodies
That harbor mystery & astrologies.

This wood once bore swollen fruit,
That hung like balloons,
Waiting
To rise up.

This wood is art,
Shaped and sanded from experience-
To function as beauty
To function as charity.

It is not a statue of laziness.
It is not a tool of greed.
It is transforming.