Several years ago I wrote some poems about carpentry.  Here's the first.  You can expect another one every week or so.

Boxes

I build boxes for my daily bread.
Some contain the ashes of the dead.

Plato claimed the sphere is perfect geometrically,
Of all the shapes it contains most volume for its surface.
Archetypal consciousness, propounded Jung
Is just as deep as as this, for it too preserves the most
psychic volume beneath its surface.
Every day turns upon these endless spheres
Of suffering millennia as
All of us are bound together spherically.
We cannot populate the world, in Plato’s sense, yet do so.

Einstein has us inhabiting the folded realms of convoluted space-
Relativity is spherical, and not.
Since all atomic junk
Burst all at once in all directions,
Even those to which our mind's eye is blinded by an illusion: Gravity.
Mathematics must be employed to show us how space curves upon itself,
Not out but in, not left nor right but up and down at once,
For when the Bang was Big,
There was no place one could say was
Centered, circle, sphere, line, or point.

Nonetheless, if we disregarded gravity on earth,
All boxes would be spheres
And all flat things we prevent from rolling round would
Float like butterflies around us, smiling.
We dwell between desire and dissatisfaction.
And rolling round, we never rest.

Yet gravity is at once our friend and enemy,
A gentle force that keeps us breathing atmosphere,
Forever bound by mass and weight, ionosphere and troposphere:
The air, the fog, the leaves, the blowing snow,
The clouds we see, the words we speak,
Bind us, as Prufrock said, “each to each.”

In building cabinets we succumb by choice to boxes,
In boxes we shelter safely under gravity's thumb,
Every cabinet installed is square and perpendicular,
Plumb.
Fee, Fi and Fo and Fum,
By the square I smell blood of  Englishman.
Each box I build is nested in another.
In the past, the boxes in my head
Were nested in the boxes of my ancestors

Who, of course, are dead.