A block of cherry, or a slab of pear,
With rings of history for the soul to share.
The artist's chisel, sharp and cold as ice,
To carve a dream and pay the timber's price.
Against the grain, the silver blade must go,
Where hidden shapes begin to softly grow.
Each gouge and splinter, a labor of the hand,
To bring a vision from the forest land.
What is left behind is where the light will stay,
While the hollowed shadows keep the dark at bay.
A world of contrast, of black and starkest white,
Born from the struggle and the wood's own might.
Then comes the brayer, with its velvet ink,
Rolling on the surface, dark as a raven's drink.
Press the paper down with a steady, heavy palm,
To capture the texture and the wooden calm.
Peel it back slowly to see the spirit's birth,
A jagged beauty from the heart of the earth.
For every line and every rugged trace,
Is a wooden heartbeat on a paper's face.