Saturday, August 6, 2011



I can smell the wood from our nest, our grido d'amour...
it's porous, it soaks up people. Perfumes. Skin. Moods.
Wood creaks when you press on it.
It might have holes in it from greedy little animals...
looking for sustenance. I was too.
Mine was love.

There is only love.
And wood.

Can it have ended so soon, like some film you love.
So easy to drift into. Drift like wood.
So easy to drift out of. Driftwood floating out to sea.
But then, what to fill that behemoth gap?
Floorboards need to lie so tight, like we do. Did.
Something to cover the mess up. 
Cover it all up. 
Uneven joins.

Bit I love the look of wood.

There is only love.
And wood.

There is the sound of wood. How does wood sound.
''When you step on it, children. How does wood sound?''
And how does wood sound, when you trip on it at school. In a line.
Tap tap tap. 
Hard wooden floors you sit on. 

Sounds different when it is harder. Hardwood. 
In the grido the wood is softer.
More gentle. It remembers love.
It recalls us. The wood would scrape our knees.
My shoulders and hips.
I look at my splinters and think,
Can it have ended so soon?
I can still see, hear and smell where it ended. 
Feels like a million years.
Its three weeks.

There is only love
And wood.

Today I will light a fire.