A rocking horse
lightly sawdusted
stained red
and smelling of cedar,
I study the edge of a line
and determine the next cut
by considering the patterns
and shapes which make up
the work so far,
and by listening
to the resonation
of wood and sap,
a density which
reverberates a throaty bellow,
once sang into.
The wooden horse
generally rocks,
but teeters with a wobble,
and my poem,
undone,
exhales,
only simulating a breath,
and both would be rendered useless
if not for the way they remind me
of my potential
and how “good enough”
will have to do
for now.
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