Day 13: Who Wood I Be?

The knives are sharp,

And the workshop is cold,

I hear the chiseling of wood,

And wonder if I’ll ever be mold.

 

Will I be a bird, free to fly forever,

A cabin in the woods, quiet and discreet,

An elephant who never forgets,

Or maybe the one who makes your heart skip a beat?

 

Will I be loved and cherished with every glance,

Or put on a shelf forgotten with years of dust,

Kept in small home to remember a time away,

Or a gift given to someone you no longer trust?

 

I don’t care what I am,

As long as I’m something,

I’m tired of being cold,

Lonely, and unbecoming.

 

Woodcarver is approaching,

The anticipation is imminent,

It looks like it’s my time is now,

I’ve never been more vigilant.

 

I thought it might hurt,

When the knife carved my side,

Only now I know it’s beautiful,

And I’ll no longer be unidentified.

 

So here I stand, tall as Mama Cotocachi,

Capturing light in my curves, for all to see.

 

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I spent the day in San Antonio, Ecuador, a woodcarving village, which inspired this poem.