“Woodcraft,” Ensign, July 1977, 61
No profile graven by whim-spindling will
Am I, nor do I guide with measured gauge
The hand to gouge and tool conflicting planes
To round conformity; I can but flinch,
Splinter spewing, crack useless in the cinch
To lie unfinished, or endure the strain.
Vice-clenched into mortality, for assuage
I long to float free, softly spill
Through limitless sands. But driftwood so
Rough-smoothed against creation cannot see
The joy of tree God-crafted, nor know
That life is only pain-lathed into beauty.