Where do spots go?

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.