My Carving Life by Frederick Wilbur

Behind Albinoni’s oboe concerto on NPR,
a woodpecker chisels to his own measure

the rake board of my shop roof looking for
carpenter bee grubs in their round wombs.

I brush walnut chips from the carving bench
that is cross-hatched by implacable mistakes—

the earnestness of apprentice labor.
Bee dung on white clapboard points to

the corruption of trim that I’ll have to replace
on the first cool afternoon of autumn,

so the bird’s splinters and ragged excavations
are of no matter to me except we

work wood together. We know the progress
of seasons toward deadlines, the same payment

for survival. Someday my children will
understand our serious art and how

we found it in the livelihood we pursue;
my signature in blood as indelible

as the bird’s red disappearing
into the vicissitudes of forest nearby.



Frederick Wilbur’s poetry has appeared in many print and online journals. His collections of poetry are As Pus Floats the Splinter Out and The Conjugation of Perhaps forthcoming from Main Street Rag Publishing.