A workshop where the wood finished me

I keep dreaming I'm holding a chisel I haven't sharpened in years, and every plank in the shop is already a table or a door or a little carved bird — none of them mine. The grain says it's been waiting. I put the chisel down and the wood just goes on being finished, like it didn't need the twenty years I gave it. Woke up wondering if that's a mercy or a gentle punchline.