Judy Brown: Wooden Boats

I have a brother who builds wooden boats,

Who knows precisely how a board

Can bend or turn, steamed just exactly

Soft enough so he, with help of friends,

Can shape it to the hull.

The knowledge lies as much

Within his sure hands on the plane 

As in his head;

It lies in love of wood and grain,

A rough hand resting on the satin 

Of the finished deck.

Is there within us each 

Such artistry forgotten

In the cruder tasks 

The world requires of us,

The faster modern work 

That we have

Turned our life to do?

Could we return to more of craft

Within our lives, 

And feel the way the grain of wood runs true,

By letting our hands linger 

On the product of our artistry?

Could we recall what we have known

But have forgotten, 

The gifts within ourselves, 

Each other too,

And thus transform a world 

As he and friends do,

Shaping steaming oak boards

Upon the hulls of wooden boats?