Unfinished Wood

I love unfinished wood. I love its potential. Clean, distinguished, waiting for me to do something with it. Shellac, varnish, even paint. I buy unfinished bookcases on a regular basis. This far I haven't decided how to finish them. But what if I just left them alone? Wouldn't that send a strong message that I'm secure within a simple, unadorned life?
Cherry wood has its place. I do have one cherry wood bookcase, but, honestly, it has lost its luster. There's no charisma that speaks to me. Yes, one can find mystery in wood grain, but it's the absence of grain in unfinished wood that truly intrigues. I mean, not that there isn't grain, but it is so understated it never overwhelms the idea of the wood, which is nature brought into our homes.
I believe my books prefer an unfinished bookcase. It's just a sensation I have as I sit quietly in my parlor, open book on my lap, soft music playing, twilight seeping through my half closed blinds.
In my deepest meditations, I sometimes feel unfinished, waiting for someone to shellac me with a soft brush.
I am my own poem.