My eye scans the winding sticks that span the oak and there the twist stands proud beyond my half cocked eye

The rough plane strikes the highs to bring them low and so again I span the oak with sticks to see if winding still stands proud

And soon my hands deliver power through the bench plane once again until the high is lowered down and the plain lies flat and true

Before I set my square of steel and brass and ebony upon the edge to see if it lies rightly to the flat face proven now as sure

Before the joint can yet be formed by chisel cuts and sawn cheeks that fit the tenon tight and deep within the mortise hole

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