The workshop windows darken into glass; They hold the room instead of showing trees. A strip of shavings curls beside the brass Of tools laid out in quiet ranks of threes.
My uncle turns a half-made bowl around, Then sets it on the shelf above the vice. He taps the rim; it gives a hollow sound. “Tomorrow,” he says softly. “Once or twice.”
He means the work: another cut, a check, A patient touch before the shape is done. I brush the dust that gathered at my neck And watch him cover wood away from sun.
The lamp clicks off. The room folds into night. The bowl waits where his hands have let it be. Not every task is finished with the light; Some wait for morning, quite contentedly.