Knotted Hands

There’s a dusty dollhouse in the basement.
A birthday present for a grandniece
you knew was too young to know the value.
You made it with your hands,
Hands that used to know the wood.
Many growth rings later,
I wonder if you have forgotten how.
Do you miss the roar of the ban saw
or the rhythm as you whittled?
Your knuckles contorted,
branches twisting upward.
My favorites were the tulips
that fit in my small and clumsy hands.
You made them for Aunt Virginia.
I haven’t seen them since she passed.
Ash trees to ashes.
Sawdust to dust.
Hands that once bent nature,
Now Nature bends and leaves dusty,
like the dollhouse in the basement.