I polish the wood, rubbing
fragrant oil in the spots left
by water, rubbing, wiping,
reapplying the oil with care,
in a circular motion, loving.
The wood responds; the spots
gradually fade and disappear,
leaving no visible trace, massaged
into endless oblivion. I wonder
at the spots’ willingness to leave,
perhaps to find a home with all
lost things on Mount Ararat, or
at least the lost and found. Some
enterprising few may find
their way to the special sale
table at the thrift store.