He soaked the wood to make the white oak bend
and wove the strips around into the shape
that made most sense.
These baskets were passed down and now contain
old letters, spools of thread, and like a yellowed book,
they earn their keep by opening.
Something about making what is not round
spring to form from an even plane
what is bound to resist keeps holding up
and in tension stays itself.
"Steady, steady," these baskets say,
their wide mouths, their silent words
mending some of the time they hold.