Woodcarver’s Candlelight

Creaking softly in the dark
The boreal, shudders against the cabin’s walls adorned,
Sheltered from Winter’s throes.
It’s lit up, by wavering flames,
A hearth that yearns for broken, wooden things
One log, then one or two more,
It’ll be hot enough soon enough
And so He sets to work

With tools of ancient hobby and trade,
Life
Returns to the uprooted,
Flowers form again
In the etched, pyrography
And then
Set to rest
The smell of writing left behind,
On timbered giants in kind

But hidden behind the calloused hands, of the One who writes with flame
Here, dreadfully scorned with age,
Is the face,
Of one who yearns for Spring

It’s thawing of the candle wax
And banishment of long darks.
From the cawing of the birds above
To the foxes deep below
These rising roots and traveled trails
With life and limb to spare
And steadfast love to wear,
A candle, for each soul to bear

Up in the Northern Boreal,
Creaking softly in the dark

Ethan Garalde, Calgary, 2023