Grained wood being polished -

varnished so fingers
glide with ease -
reflects light
appeasing the eye 
with its parallel veins,
wood retains an energy
and vibrancy still singing
in spite of severing
pieces from the whole,
despite its fashioning
by hands and machinery
outwith its control.

Something remains of the heart
that spreads with seasoning
ring by slow ring
until now, an encompassing
circle are my days,
their branches
weaving over
wood grained
and polished
the oak core
by girth and magnitude
by growing ways.
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