Wooden Blocks

Wooden carved,
a portrait hewed out of some new pine
That found its maiden mother
hidden just like mine.

Wooden carved, or crayoned,
the time has come and gone.
You ask not of forgotten things
the hour they went wrong.

And if you question fiercely
the portrait, sculpture thine,
You'll feel but, all too keenly
The knife that made that line.

December 18, 1970
  By Linda A. Copp ©