Old Wood Plane

need some input on this poem by carolyn forche

not really getting the jist of it..
thank you
Dulcimer Maker

Calf-deep in spruce dust,
wood curls off his knife,
blade wet, bare bulb light.

The finish of his hands
shows oil, grain, knots
where his growth scarred him.

Planing black oak
thin to flow sounds
Tone of wind filling
bottle lips.

It is his work tying strings
across fresh-cut pine.

He sings into wood, listens:
tree rings, water!

The wood drinks his cloth,
its rots going to the depths of him,
spreading.

He wants to build a lute for music
carved on Sumarian stones, a music
no one has heard for three thousand years.

For this he will work
the oldest wood he can find.
It will not be as far away,
as unfamiliar.

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