Ode To An Inherited Table (Poetry)

I cannot name your wood, for
I am no expert, me.
But of this there is no doubt
you were once some type of tree.

I draw my finger down
the message in your grain
and imagine I can feel
your living strength again.

I close my eyes and see
the forest of your birth —
your place in all that green
your full-grown height and girth.

To think they took an axe
and brought you to the ground
the vision makes me flinch
I hear that dreadful sound

of branches flailing wild
as you tumbled through thin air
then they stripped you of your leaves
and left you naked there.

What kind of men were those
who in ignorance could wrench
a tree like you from all it knew
to make some chair or bench?

Or perhaps they made a door
with carpentry pristine
they smoothed, primed, then painted you
some ghastly shade of green.

This table’s just one part
brought safe into my home
your many scars from use
are all that’s left to own.

I’ll polish these reminders —
each blemish, gouge and stain
I’ll read your story written deep
along the darkened grain

And when my life is over
you’ll go to someone who
has understanding and respect
for all that you’ve been through.