This Christmas
I am making a wooden
Rocking chair.
It will be a gift
For my baby nieces and
Any infant associates
They might invite to sit
And share the time.
When I work on the chair,
I clear the center of the room
Of my New York apartment and
Cover the entire space with plastic
To protect from injury and spoil.
When I am staining,
The stain oozes
Between my fingers and
Gets into my fingernails
As I force the color into
The memory of the wood.
While I'm working,
I am painfully aware of every
Imperfection, fault or flaw--––
A scratch here––
A gouge there––
One rocker of the chair
Slightly longer than the other.
No matter.
The point of this ritual
Is not the chair––
But the making and the giving.
How the sweat of the heart
Is applied through the hands––
How the polishing
Causes the wood to shine.
How the glow remains.
Like these words I am writing
To share this Christmas
With all the friends
I know.
With all the friends
I don't know.