Antique Molding Plane
The planes are in the ancient barn
Webbed to the shelf and weighted with dust,
Molding planes, smoothing planes, grooving planes,
A litany of ways for working wood.
Among them is a plane, too narrow for smoothing wood,
On its rosewood handle, stamped sharp and clear,
As when he first set hand to it, the initials G. W.,
Each letter punctuated by a period.
I lift that plane, liking its heft and balance,
Curve my fingers around the rosewood block,
Worn to the shape of his hand.
I set my palm against the rosewood base,
Smooth and polished dark with sweat.
Sharp as the day he set it down,
The narrow blade slips loose from its socket.
I take a wooden mallet and carefully tap the wedge,
Setting the blade in place.
I run it along a block of wood.
A thin shaving, sweet-smelling,
Unrolls beside my hand.
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