Wood  stories.                                                                    

  Wonder  If it is a  super polished   oblong,                

Mahogany  table or sturdy chair,

The Grand sire  reciting  The Mahabharata

Wheeling on it, every  now  and then looking

At the inmates  with  a  peremptory look ;

Or grandfather clock, tick ticking          

Every beat of  our  move, hope

And  happening around us;

Every piece,  a silent, kindling

Watcher  or  bearer, for  a  wood

 wall portrait  engraved specific

of  a maternal uncle, homeopathy

practitioner. How often the  playful

children   would  hide and seek

beneath the broad table, a spectrum

of  unbounded mirth  and glee.

The  wooden  articles   breathe,

Yet bemoan not their predicament

Nor  curse their  once   felling  sword,

For  but for the cruel fate  of

Those   hands, these would not

Be embellished here.