the Lathe; a sonnetbyStella_Omega©
The lathe stands before you solid, restless,
Holding half the power of a plow-horse
The log offers itself to you, accepts the bite
Of the honed steel in your hand, held steady
Against the rest. You bend towards your goal.
Turning wood is craft, you’ll find— not art; (although
You’ll feel the spinning wood pull and catch
Your soul in ways you never dreamed.) You match
A shape that you’ve designed already
(It helps to keep your benchmark well in sight).
You know when you’re finished (unlike, of course
This damned poem that I tinker with, endless).