I am wooden but carved.
I learn from rough paper strokes,
But when the metal edge bears down
I pull myself in-

I am wooden but carved.
I pretend that I am a flower instead, 
My dust falls as pollen,
Sunshine smiles
Through swinging bulbs
And drills buzz the bees’ song.

I am wooden but carved.
I understand “chip on your shoulder”
And “off the old block.”
I say I cannot rest with either.
I dream of a spring field to sway in.

I hope someone sees
My sanded layers
Fall like petals.
I am wooden but carved.