Friends Dropping By

Their faces seem dark,
for I have been lost in the work
and for a moment cannot find my way back:
my hands shake slightly
from gripping the tool.

Coming from a place where
talking is the order of the day,
they settle in,
ears and mouths glittery with expectation.

I can serve cold tea and almonds,
now,
I can move between the rooms
and F. can smile at them—
the afternoon light lifts gold strips
across our faces—
we can form a slight but warming circle
around the floor

and they can leave,
laughing lightly and slamming car doors,
blowing off toward the dropped sun:

we stand back from the windows,
listening to the roses scratch against the house
and to the rustlings of the cat
far down the hall.

He moves first to start the rice.
I have found a new opening
in the wall,
the source perhaps of the faint ribbon of cold air
which drifted in all winter.

:: Carol Cox, Woodworking and Places Nearby (1979)

Night: 1

In bed,
the work is left behind
and brought still closer in.

I know that in my dreams
new shapes evolve,
sculptures done in heavy purple woods
and pale wood light as a star.
I know that you will think all night
about how long the joints will hold
and when and how you came to love
the wood so much.

Against you and away from you
under this dark green blanket
I know that any work is possible

and likely to be done
when there is light enough.

:: Carol Cox, Woodworking and Places Nearby (1979)

Resumption

Coffee cups, brown glaze on white,
stand along the bench.
Spilled liquid leaves clumps of grey sawdust
around unfinished work.
The tools are dull,
and I have sat on my crooked stool for hours
trying to think of mirror designs.

A friend comes by to see how the work goes,
to share new books,
to drink tea from an ivory cup.
I pick up a slipstone,
and we whisper through the afternoon.

:: Carol Cox, Woodworking and Places Nearby (1979)