The carpenter knew well the harsher shapes
That rough-cut wood and iron nail could take.
The axe was often in his calloused grasp,
Though now he held the narrow, rounded rasp.
He worked it twice around the stubborn socket
Then slipped it back inside his apron pocket,
So that the mortise might receive a peg,
So that the table might receive its leg.
The child observed the craftsman’s patient art,
Saw form emerging from his father’s heart.
This poem is from the Fall 2017 issue of Modern Age.
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Founded in 1957 by Russell Kirk and Henry Regnery, Modern Age is a journal of conservative thought and a magazine devoted to culture, history, philosophy, and the ideas behind the great currents of modern life. Follow us on X @ModAgeJournal
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