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Paradigm Shift 

The colors of marks made by tools

In oak, pine, yew, fruitwood,

And even ancient larch

the sound, the first sound,

after we put the chainsaw down

and strain to hear again

catch the wood smell as the chisel

finishes the perfect cicatrix along the board

deafness recedes, breath sharper now

we stretch to return to ordinary air

for sight, smell, and sound

our senses, thus far evolved,

will not catch as we glimpse

fall the last oak leaf

that it lands with infinitely high

scritch against the bluestone slab

awaiting quietly beneath

  • A poem by Helen Stevens Chinitz.

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