Within this world, there waits a patient wood
that longs for recreation by your touch
to fall, be sold, be sawn, and seen as good.
Its oaks have pinned their hopes to suffer such;
its maples dream as much as they are able,
and every aspen whispers to itself:
they pine for you to bring them to the table,
or give them self-assurance as a shelf.
   Then there's yourself.  The elements essential
   within the raw material of you
   are scintillating stock, with star potential;
   still, steadily you work, and make them new.
And beauty's born, no matter where it lies,
for all the world reflects behind your eyes.