she etches things in wood with her hands
i guess that's her way of letting me be hollow inside.
i'm carved open, closed shut.
everything around my inner core is patented suffering.
i guess shes not much of a nail biter
nor do her hands shake before laying forward
letting me know how she splinters
every time we touch.
she doesn't cry.
life tends to lead us on bumpy roads
not smooth surfaces.
living with my faults is how she breathes
it tests us and keeps us together.
i love the sounds of carpentry
and echo through my own woods.
the trees are tall,
and im always around to hear them
even if they collapse one by one.
she holds me upright like some lumberjack needing
a back brace.
keep days from falling too quickly
if you pick it back up and move forward your hoping
that tomorrow is going to be a happy day.
she lends me her heart
picking through the leaves
leaving the scrapings around this wooden heart.
its a delicate year my love
i'm only as sharp as others have made me.