If the light's just right,
I see the little tracks
in the wood of my desk
as if made by miniature bird feet,
impressions from the fisted controls
of my children doing homework,
numbers, colons, names, slashes,
schedules, carved calculations
and essays' end, secret messages
to friends impressed by pencil's nub.
I run my fingertips over the grooves,
gouges, glad for wood's softness,
my children's etched hopes,
hilarity, industry, love.


© by Jeff Burt.
Used with the author's permission