Cedar in the air, there is no greater smell
An oaken feeling, historic in its on sense
The nature of the carver, the shaper, the maker
Is that to the instinct of nature
A tree growing, summer light, winter dark,
A cloud forming and pouring
Stock, lumber, a canvas in its own right
Waiting to be molded, crafted
A knot, imperfection to some, but
To the maker, a glorious accent
The flex, the flow, the wave of the grain
Natures own brush stroke, painted at the hands of God
The shop is the carpenter's temple
A safe haven, relieving the stress and agony of the outside world
The machines spinning, cutting, sanding away the worries
A wood worker is at peace
With the swing of a hammer
The twist of a screw
The push of a saw
