Rounded perfectly by careful carving, a curve reminiscent of sinkholes
Of tree knots, and yet less profound.
Hollowed out for soups and stews with wood coated over
Stained to prevent stains.

A shape wondrous to the eyes of a hiker, common to those in homes
With clipped corners and uniformly blown glass.
The shell of paint in all its cool smoothness, is unhindered by imperfections
Under busy hands, it blends easily with polished granite countertops and silver spoons.

Perhaps stripped away of lacquer and adornment, could it not be returned
to soil and earth? Or has it been ruined by craftsmanship, a piece of nature
twisted to slavery in a sterile kitchen. Can the whorled wood be freed?
Can the roughened lines, a mark of the years, 
see again the sun that gave it the strength to grow? 

Rarely is found a trunk, a branch, fit for molding by a tool.
But in a world of forests, of boats piled with felled ancients,
a thousand kings are just commoners. 
A miracle reduced by frequency.