A craftsman vows to give up
the buzz of his saws and promises forty days
of rotating blades in silence. Without
sound he meditates on the way
he splinters the board and himself; the scent
of wood, a surprising delicacy that stirs
his thoughts to the woman who once stirred
in his bed. Surely, he thinks, she has given up
chocolate and is driven mad by its scent.
He recently stopped counting the days
since he'd seen her, but the way
she twisted hair around her finger leaves him without
defense. He knows why he must be without
her, but in this noiseless vacuum his head stirs
down the spiraling staircase to the way
her back arched when she lifted up
but not quite off-hours seemed to melt into days.
When she had to go, he would not shower her scent
off his skin. This love, this woman, had sent
prudence off packing; he was left simply without
judgment. He breaks with a cigarette, smokes in a daze,
wonders at how the wing of such a lovely bird stirs
the air, forever changing what has been known up
to this point. Self-inflicted penance of silence--a way
to make amends and discover the way
back to something divine. The fresh and earthy scent
of wood, he hopes, will conjure up
some vision of Christ. For years he has been without
much heavenly conviction, so he waits for something to stir
his spirit. The answer, he concedes, must be in these forty days.
His saws have been ordered quiet for less than a day,
but already his morning work has offered way
to small solace. He did not consider, however, that stirring
his coffee would clink the spoon or the scent
of rich cream would leave him without
remorse, make him lift his eyes up,
but stir his spirit further from the cross and send
him longing for past days, asking no forgiveness for the way
he lived without conscience and loved until his strength was used up.
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