A

Life

Made 

of Wood

I am birch

in a grove of cedar.

My roots can

strangle plumbing

as easily as

a stone

in ardor.

No matter 

how I am used

or misused,

my nature remains.

Hands know me

by touch as

I comfort the blind

by reverberation.

I am a chair

built to

 uphold Kings 

and naives alike.

I am all arms

reaching upwards

to the sun

as a God.

I live by the same

properties

that form

a prayer.

I am a table

inviting kinship

with speech

humming in the grain

like a blood.

I am a ladder

for climbing

fruit trees.

Not just that.

I am

apple and acorn,

balsam, oak, willow,

and palm.

Maple, pine, bamboo,

sandalwood and 

the Lord’s psalm.

My fate

lies in

servitude;

walking sticks,

tooth picks,

wooden legs,

begging bowls,

pencils and mortars,

I am

the pages of

every book;

mine is a life

to be written

upon.

Christ was nailed

to me after

carrying my diary

on his back

through the streets

of Golgotha.

I am 

human wood.

My death

still lighting up

the dark.

Good Friday, 2021

Peter Valentyne