Dried log on the woodpile, furry pearls of spider egg...

Dried log on the woodpile, furry pearls of spider egg sacks
tugged off the underside and flicked into the mulch. When pulled off the wood,
a cottony whisper of fabric ripping. A couple logs grabbed, splintery old oak,
a couple blank forms made, crude spoon shapes. I sat with my brothers months
ago in the last warmth of fall. We shared tools and I showed them how to carve.
The wood was not ideal, old and hard and dry. Curls collected on the floor of
the porch, on the table, on our laps, into our shoes. I didn’t think I’d ever
finish the one I started that day – too hard, too unforgiving – but last night, finally,
after months of it living in my freezer to keep inside what moisture it held, I
did the work and deemed it done, and massaged it today with beeswax and
flaxseed oil, which smells like honey and soil, which smells like the color
amber, which softened the skin on my hands, and all day kept touching the spoon,
rubbing my palm over the flat, smoothing my thumb against the smooth curves of
its bowl. So simple and so smooth. I could not get enough.