in a workshop in the land
of redwoods and cool pine air
he caresses the possibilities
of what might emerge
from the wood before him
on the bench are knives, rasps
a mallet—deceptively heavy
because divining what has been
long-buried is not light work
a laying on of hands and a long
calculated cut begins the winter
sculpting, smoothing and slicing
toward a vision of what awaits
the shape that draws him to it
on a train that slices through snow
tall buildings of concrete and steel
she fills a poem with wood smoke
the scent of pine, the way the sky
reflects a silver ocean when
the world turns upside down
in a circle of Cyprus on the headlands
a hollow of tangled limbs
sprawling vistas
beneath his searching hands
her reflective images
the long-buried possibilities
of their imaginings
taking shape
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