an image appears
an opaque silhouette haunts your mind
where does it belong?
what material does it want to be made of?
flames splatter around the contours.
so you weld.
but the impression in your heart fades away,
metal and fire was not the right element.
an etching? half-done you cast it aside,
it was not meant to be.

you let the image rest
and do other things in the meantime.
you paint a wall.
you dismember a stoop
and bring it back to life again

the ghost silhouette returns,
and you meet it in the forest one afternoon


its fiery eyes stare at you through the bark
forcing you to shape them,
to release them from the form they are accustomed to.
if you leave the image too long, it will emerge from everything around you
from the pages of the book you are reading
from the faces you see,
from the screen you focus your eyes on.

it is a stubborn image,
it taunts and teases you until you take out the piece of wood again
but dissolves when you aim your scalpel at the wood pulp

but you are stubborn too
you carry the slab of wood with you
and like a hunter with a spear waiting at the water’s edge
you practice patience

a chisel on a wooden canvas strokes the form out of hiding
you see shapes and patterns glowing inside
so much junk is in between
you must clear the waste blocking the way
and the more you persist, the easier it flows

until finally the tips of your fingers
can feast on the

you will sand it down with your fingertips

this is a creation
you will never be finished with

1999 by Take Root Member Linnea Kralik
It is a poem about my Dad – he happens to be a carpenter, but the poem deals with the issue that he never gave up on finding me and my sister and brother, and also with the fact that “reuniting” is an ongoing process, which never really finishes

Read Linnea’s abduction narrative

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