their hands to wood,
carving
with sharp instruments
into the trunks
of trees, finding
what their hearts desire.
practical
and needed, the shelves,
the drawers.
perhaps a table to eat from.
and some
go towards rock,
towards marble and stone,
chipping away
at some beauty locked within.
shaping and smoothing
life out.
whereas i
suppose i find
my work in words.
no less hard, no less a struggle,
to find
an answer
to a mystery that never
ends. to put it all
down in writing,
with my
sharpened pen.
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