I dream
beneath a roof of words
and wish
that words could be as wood
as solid products
stacked to sell
and ship.
That hundreds
come to gaze upon
the joinery of sentences
applaud
the nail-less fittings of
my words.
That words
could carry forth a scent
of gold-green sap
and mountain mist
in every stilted,fluid wave
of grain.
That words
cleaved from the soul’s trunk
then touched to paper
(wood’s lament)
could still sing out their roots, once felled
and filed.
I dream
that words could sing my years
like wood
a lake in autumn rain
casting rings across its face
as tears.
Cast Off! Writers' Workshops 