The Table

who remembers

when the seeds of

these ancient trees

first sprouted only

the grasses were there then

our new kitchen table

is an old table

reconstructed as it is

from salvaged boards

from the walls and stalls

of disassembled barns

from the floors of

abandoned houses

from frames of forgotten

churches and worn pews

masterfully planed and sanded

shaped mitered piece by piece

by an unnamed craftsman’s hands

a universe frozen in

stained and polished wood

waxed to a brown-red hue

rings wormholes

warps splits imperfections

deep grains counting

the years restored

to a semblance of grace

who now recalls

parts of the table

as living oak

on a windswept hill

at a time when

neither land 

nor sky conceived

from all the mischief

what version

of events

would follow

for us there

were lives

before this life

in which we struggled

to persevere

without the knowledge

we might be

born again

for us there will be

lives after this life

where we might

celebrate our strange rebirth

with no memory of before

but now brimming

with each new grievance

weighted by the fat

of our daily indulgence

there’s only what remains

of this truncated life

sharing dinner

at the old table

drinking good-enough

red wine in silence

a wind we

cannot name

long ago blew

sawdust from

each truss and joist

the joiner’s saw

cut through

termites swarm outside

in the first lingering

warmth of spring

and in the damp

behind the walls

carpenter ants

uncurl from their

black winter balls

begin to chew anew

their way through veins

of dried lumber

to the heart of our

repurposed wood