Splintered Cords of Wood

take a right 3

The cord splintered in my hands.

As though it were Goliath…and, I, David.

Just a majestic Madam of being more than avid.

Lumbering in and out…

the muddy waters that held my feet…steady.

Dreams of yesterday’s strength…oh, so, petty.

A union of handmade scars requesting that I, now, rescind that myth.

My inner child pays homage to growth.

Such as, the rings on newly fallen trees.

A well built structure,

calls me to a new way home.

Leather-ed hands toil over acres of what I have yet to see.

Oh, but, those wet with humidity, afternoons, set my child free.

Always within the run of my blood…

But not so distant that the taste of wooden soil…

gently attracts.

Robust sawdust…

Pine shavings…

Protecting me, her, us.

Just a rural muscle still ahead of the curve.

The limbs of everyday chores touching upon my able bodied nerves.

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