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And I mentioned this poem
before about my daughter.

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She had not as yet been born.

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But my wife loves trees.

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She loves wood.

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And she takes photographs.

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And she likes the soil--

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very much connected
with the land.

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And this is called
"Lathe: Shirl's Tree."

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Shirl's my wife.

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But the poem is really
for this daughter.

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"I sit at my lathe,
since she loves trees,

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covered with ash or maple.

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Ash beautiful as
this burn, my chisel

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makes in her grain from
large and small crevice

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as a wood gouges its fibers,
only a pocket of child.

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This hard New England
cherry is the same dry.

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Linseed and turpentine
on a rag make the wood--

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make my lathe roll
in her oiled fibers,

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well-wrought pocket of child,
ashen and cherry-oiled tree."

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