The Love Chair
The woodworker walks the stand of camphor laurel. She knows
the trees' passion: their leaves as familiar as her hands; their
growth as tranquil as the evolution of her love.
She dreams green's rubric: trees one-and-a-half women
high; the air showered with wheatgrass-green leaves; a
branch as thick as her forearm on the ground.
Mystery guides her hands. Her fingers circle the axe's
solid handle & the blade arcs through the air. The axe's
bit, its sharp edge, reveals the white wood.
Her trade tools speak to her: the murmur of
metal plane over roughness; nails sing the
Later, the woodworker walks around the
chair. Love emeralds her eyes as her lover's
hair waterfalls over the back and sides.
The first page of a new year starts with
pyrotechnics. Midnight rockets combust
the previous year's hardback cover. At other
times though, in any week, month or decade,
books are like our metal friends – as a bullet
is a full-stop defying gravity, poems are
explosive words deferring death.
Go inside a book like you look into the eyes of
a pretty-faced wallaby. You feel the warmth of
bibles, unbartered words, poems that spark fires.
A bed-side lamp halos a table of books. These
words burn life's cold laughter, the letters a
healing salve for the broken-hearted.