The Desk

The Desk.
Seasoned, weathered, worn–
the smell of old wood and new finish.
Stains betray the depth of his grace,
how long he has lived, how wise is his brow!

The Desk is a solid rock with space inside–
for broken hearts and thriving minds,
for trophies and rejection letters,
for memories of smiles, for tokens of regret.

The Desk shields and protects.
Order finds shelter from Chaos
within the spirit of this old sage,
breathing from his innermost parts.

The Desk supports trembling arms, overtaxed,
freeing the Master to create, to rest, to labor, to dream.
He remembers the weight of tears on paper,
the silence between keystrokes.
He remembers the press of every prayer,
the quiver of doubt behind the pen,
the moment when the work became witness.
He has seen what even Mirror forgets.

The Desk can feel Day and her movements.
Trees invade the room on a summer breeze
through the window, now open.
But the Desk stands at attention–
a guard to his palace, unmoved by any one thing.

But secretly, he greets his fellow woods with fondness,
for the thickness of the scent reminds him he is not alone.
Yet he, out of all of them, has been fashioned for purpose–
he bids Bed and Bookshelf serve the Master
in solidarity, following his example.
Chair learns from the Desk how to bow to its Master–
how to bend, how to give, how to spend, how to live.

For he knows the weight of the Master's hand—
how it lingers when joy is full,
how it trembles when grief is near.
He keeps their rhythm in his grain.
Day in and day out,
he remains,
and ever shall be,
until the day he is ravaged
by the seas of industry and age.

The Desk.

He who calls himself wise becomes a fool.
But then, who made us arbiters
in the great community of things?
But the fear of the Master is the beginning of wisdom–
–and we know nothing of its finishing.
Wisdom is not ours to name, after all.