“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.