In my childhood bedroom lives a desk made by my great grandfather
A big, heavy creature smelling of wood colored dark
When I was a child I would sit under the desk where a chair was supposed to go
And trace the parallel lines of the grain
The life blood of the dark wood--cherry? chestnut? hickory?
Unlike my great grandfather I do not speak a language of saw blades and belt sanders
So I was left to guess at the flavor of this sheltered place
Some afternoons I would try to count the lines like rings but always
I would lose track
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