The Bowyer
Old staves of bow wood stand in line against the cabin wall
Their journey to the bowyer’s bench begins with careful cull
The crafters eye seeks out the path of rings that seem to hide
Beneath the bark and sapwood that belie what lay inside
His stave has spent the past few years just waiting in the wings
Arriving to that perfect stage that air dried curing brings
He uses not a fancy gauge to show him when to start
He simply knows the time is now, and feels it in his heart
His draw knife peels aside the bark as he pulls the sharp blade near
And brings to view the underlying rings that formed each year
And with each stroke he deftly takes, he opens up a door
And gets a glimpse of older times, to years that went before
He seeks a wide ring for the back, a year of wealth and fare
When feeding rains fell frequently and kissed the cool night air
Such times will bring a weapon that will serve the archer well
Through many years in field and wood, cross mountain, hill and dale
The shavings that lie on the floor beneath the bowyer's stand
Sift gently cross the cabin floor like shifting desert sand
Each piece a minute drawn from time that once was here and now
Each stroke adds to the hours that accrue within the pile
And now he holds his new born bow all tillered to a tee
With twisted string he braces it then rests it on his knee
A coat or two of parafin will seal it from the rain
And serve the archer in his quest to be a child again
