SECRET DOVETAILS


On two sides of the room,
Broad, sunny windows.
In the air, flickering particles of heartwood
Like stars brighter than daylight.
Two men are at a long bench.
Beside them,
Contained by ugly iron cramps,
A rectangular box.
There is a drawing spread out,
Curled at the corners
And weighted down with odd tools.
One of the men
Has a piece in his bench block,
Marked out.
He places his left hand there,
Thumbnail at a line,
Then he raises a light backsaw
And begins to cut,
Leaving a shadow of the pencil line,
Cutting deeper
In sure strokes until the saw
Is exactly home,
Then the man eases it out.
He blows away dust,
Adjusts his angle and continues
Cutting the tenons.
The other man takes a pencil
From behind his ear
And writes in a notebook.
He goes to a rack of planed timber,
Selects a length,
Takes it to another bench,
Measures, and marks with a try square.
He rips the length
And then crosscuts it to size.
The men rarely speak
But they know each other's secrets.