Right Angles

My father spends these days in wood –

Strong, hard oak that turns to smooth-grained

Treasures in his hands. Time and trials have taught

Him that to create the form he seeks, he first

Must put his heart into the piece.

I love to watch him move about his shop,

His big, rough hands touching planer and saw,

Holding router and clamp, reaching through the dust

Of creation he wears in every wrinkle and crease.

He says that his work must be square

So the bonds will hold and the fit will be true.

Carefully, he sights along the cut and chisels the waste away,

Proving the lessons of his work: “Right angles,”

He tells me, “make the best geometry.”