Essence

Essence
 
When I say wooden -
I mean cedar chests, hemlock crates, 
hickory axe handles, oak masts -
when I say wooden 
can you feel your hand
brush an unfinished pine shelf,
silky, a patch of amber resin   
catching your fingertips?  
Once living, still fulfilling 
duties as assigned 
until one day, repairs failing,
recommissioned first  
a child’s bird house,
then kindling, finally, 
festive home 
for carpenter ants fungi.
 
I mean neither façade  
nor empty expression;
I mean, like wood, 
not living and not dead – 
a life owing its persistence
to its essence.

By essence 
I do not mean something left 
in sawdust incense, 
on the dull edges
of files and blades, 
on worn sandpaper 
and calloused hands:
Essence is not a life's residue.
When I say essence
I mean a life's means and mode:
I mean the grit that dulls the blade
to be remade
to live another way
to live another day.