The belt kicks on with a whir & the whir
licks the end grain of the offcut with a hint
of hesitation. A small wind of ochre dust
sweeps off the belt before the belt comes back
to where it was. The whole room swells
with the scent of cinnamon & desire.
How imprecise the smell of desire.
The wood takes on a sheen, a gloss
the grain can live behind without worry
of being forgotten. A single knot blinks
out of the small block and becomes
the eye of a hummingbird, its beak
bending around the edge of the wood,
its small song captured in the annular rings.
To think, this block was tossed in
with the scraps. That the bird
could have been lost. Or burned.
Source: Poetry (January 2013).