John Muro Bird’s Eye I’m referring to the clusters Of constellations that leopard Certain planks of maple— Sensuous aureoles of palest Gold that you might see floating Like candles in windows near dusk. Whorled turbulence embedded in The loose splatter of caramelized Grain without the oval thumbprint Of burl. Peacock veneer for rifle-stock, Stringed instruments, canes, cues And even humidors. Its murky Wombs often interwoven with The rippled ruin of flame-maple, Arcing like the cursive fonds That mottle the orbed shell of A hazelnut. Yet its lush calligraphy Tells us how grandeur is but a State of constant erosion and a Series of harsh diminishings, Since the wood’s delirious, Otherworldly splutter; its lavish Sprawl and erratic excess of eyes; And its feathered homage to plumes Of steam and pools of looping Water also serve to weaken The integrity of the wood.
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