The wood sings under my hand
As, blurring and blending the sharp edges,
The big file does its work; making new
Wood look worn with years of use.

Distressing the wood it’s called.
Distressed in not what I’m feeling:
The file soothes my soul as it
Smooths the wood

I am one with all who through time
Have worked with hand and tool.
One with the worker, one with the tool
one with the work.

There is no past, nor present, nor future –
Only the eternal now of tool and wood.

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Work is not always fun, or satisfying, or ennobling -- it is often boring, dangerous and exploitive. But sometimes.....