To be remembered in wood

Knifed out following a grain

Shaped the way its tree stood.

Not painted. Not rubbed. Plain.

From the small rings and low bole.

And I think not my carven face

But some clench of a root, burl

Slow grown without much grace.

It might mean by lift and mass

How I was heavy, how I was hard,

Though sun up grain could pass

To streak a memorial marred

Block of a cut and common wood.

Let some blade bite, in a hand

Trying timber, if it could -

Ring, color, knot, strand -

Seem me and be wild wood.