KNOTS

These knots in the wood of my table
Stare at me every day as though
Trying to tell me stories of
Their annular rings

This one was a young twig
Its mummified whorls no larger
Than those of my thumb which seems
To be my own knot

That one spins like a galaxy
In the lap of yet larger waves
That stretch into infinity by which
I mean the edge of my table

Did they stand apart on breezy glade
These planks that lie locked below this page
Now also joined in these words
Or were they always one?
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