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.