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Poem

My head rests on the doorframe, as I'm watching him at work.
I'm jealous of the devotion, and the motion of his hands,
much surprised at the green-eyed dragon that lurks within my mind, 
while he rubs the pungent oil into muscles of the pine.

With rolled up sleeves, a sweaty brow, his rough, sandpaper hands.
he hones a smile along the aisle of every strand of wood
With even strokes, a time-worn cloak is peeled back and released,
where the onion skin of years and wear
had been entombed beneath the grain

He groans with satisfaction, (this  Frankenstein, of mine),
while something worn, and tossed away, 
is brought to life. 
Back from the dead

A shimmering sheen, patina gleams while morning light slides in,
I think I see a swirl of smoke that curls above his head
And the warmth of the wood has sizzled hot, as if the sun came up

No awareness of the passion, engrained upon his face, 
he sees me not, .... or my jealous want,.......His needs have been erased.
The lingering scent of linseed has claimed my breathing space 


There are swarming nests of sawdust , cart-wheeling in the air,
a strand of hair, falls out of place.......and I cannot tear my eyes from here 
The sensual, taunting, simple grace.......my eyes have begged to stay 

I stare and marvel, for awhile
A shiver up my spine, implores.....to touch the man I face,
                           release his trancelike state of mind,
                                          and let his fingers trace



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