The Bowyer
By George D. Stout
Old staves of white wood stand in line against the cabin wall
Their journey to the bowyer’s bench begins with careful cull
The crafter’s eye seeks out the path of rings that seem to hide
Beneath the bark and sapwood that belie what lay inside
His hickory stave has spent the past year 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 lays 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 nights were cool and fair
Such times will bring a weapon that will serve the hunter well
Through many years in field and wood, cross mountain, hill and dell
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 polished to a tee
With linen string he braces it then rests it on his knee
Then off he goes into the woods to play the game once more
And see just what the white wood and the red gods have in store.
