In each world I rip apart
Constellations and colors
As though the black matter of
The Universe, everywhere unseen around us,
Suddenly becomes visible,
Now seen woven together densely,
In the tightest fabric.
Sometimes, clean, simple, pure soft yellow
The chunk spills apart like a pine oil you gloss
Upon the floor;
Opening without objection.
Sometimes complex, varied and colorful
Is the world inside,
Dark green like rich leaves
Or strong yellow fungus
Or a colony of ants
Or earthy brown or rich red,
Colors so aflame, - even orange -
That they call to mind the purpose
These chunks of timber will serve in the coming winter
When this summer day will burst out
Among the frost or fallen snow outside.
Sometimes with a smell so calling
That it stops you in your tracks;
Sweet, soothing; another constellation of
The senses; compelling you to soak it in
Face to face.
But the old grand grainy oak screams and tears,
Each part holding onto another part
As though each cell had to splinter
Only with the full power of the sharp edge
Raised high with all the potential
Energy you can summon and released, turned transformed
Down, hard, crushing, inevitable
Resisting so strongly that the splinters
Curl with the force,
Refusing to go gently.
God has given us the lever
To be more powerful than we are
To break apart these worlds,
Force open his creation
And use it for our will.
He reveals the workings of constellations;
Inner worlds and outer worlds
So that we can know He provides for us
And are cared for
