I am afraid of
painted wood,
of silence, the absence
of touch-
all empty hearts.
Do not conceal the grain.
an errant
beauty that meanders
repeats patterns,
a sorcery of contrast
that speaks of light and dark,
grown in the embrace of time.
Smoothed in polished hue,
yet textured and aching
for traces
to sound
and hear its voice.
The vibrations that
act upon a contoured soul
and adjoin
with tongues of parity,
a shape that’s shared and sown.
*******************
While sitting at my work table, I noticed the beautiful wood grain that wove through the surface, and this poem emerged.
Taps and Ratamacues 
So beautiful John, it’s such a tragedy when people paint over beautiful wood. My dad gave me a strong appreciation for such things that I am grateful for. Lovely. đŸ™‚
You are so right Elizabeth. Glad to hear that you also like the natural look of wood grain. Thanks for sharing your thoughts. I’m glad you liked the poem.
I surely did. Have a wonderful day!