Phoenix

An expert eye sees more than scraps,

More than firewood;

He sees the grain, so straight and true,

And saves it from burning.

Patiently he seasons the wood,

No warps or bows will do,

Time and heat are what it takes

To make the wood of use.

With steady hands he cuts the piece,

A perfect jig to follow;

Dovetails or splines join the sides

To make it strong and sturdy.

Not proud or shy, a perfect match,

Each corner square and true.

Finished to perfection, 

A coat of oil applied,

A work of art emerges,

A phoenix of a sort.

Today's prompt: think about the jargon of a particular job or profession, and see how you can incorporate it into a metaphor that governs or drives your poem.