Bevel

On the quiet bench where timber sighs,
A bevel waits, a slanted whisper,
Its edge—soft‑cut, a gentle rise—
Turns plain board into light‑kissed glister.

In joiner’s hand the plane does glide,
Shaving off the square’s proud claim,
Leaving a slope where shadows bide,
A humble angle, not the same.

It speaks of patience, measured thought,
Of lines that lean yet never break,
Of craft that seeks the middle sought
Between the stark and the soft‑awake.

So let the bevel teach us, dear,
To find the grace in leaning near.