My plane sings as I guide it along the large timber.
The wood yields without complaint.
With my left hand, I flick shavings from the plane’s mouth
And they drift down to the ground.
They feel warm under my bare feet.
My plane sings as I guide it along the large timber.
The wood yields without complaint.
With my left hand, I flick shavings from the plane’s mouth
And they drift down to the ground.
They feel warm under my bare feet.
Sculptural Woodwork by Chris Wong 