Carefully choose my wood, as I had planned –
Not to be cut by motorized tool,
But implements of old to shape to and sand.
Ahh… I belong to the old-time school.
The one that consists of unconventional fools
Who work by their own distinctive law.
We, the carpenters of the silent tool.
No electric current do I draw.
My workbench holds no power saw.
Only simple tools – hand saws and planes,
Chisels and hammers – a vise with wooden jaw.
Wood must be handled to know the grain,
To read of its history of drought or of rain.
Only to the hand are these revealed…
The tale of the great fire and the hurtful stain.
To those who seek the history unsealed,
Noise of a motor seems too loud and too cruel.
The secrets of wood will remain concealed
To all but the carpenters of the silent tool.