You are building our bed.
The wood, sitting on the kitchen floor for months
is forging its way into furniture.
Will you build this bed like you have built this love?
Slow, steady, with bursts of passion?
Worshipping every curve, angle, the grain of the wood
with your eyes, your hands,
taking your time over it, afraid to make a mistake, to make a cut
or bruise that perfect piece of hope.
The blade rips, massages, chips away the straight backed form.
Then, in front of us, our bed.
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