With wood, the artist within
created hollow log-ends
from fragrant cedar fascia,
an extra to match office to house –
O’ how the black night sings
at the corners in a storm, now
her voice reverberates, rising
on the wind, as I write, passing
from passion to wilder extremes.
The timbers ache and crack
as she screams like a lioness
pleading with her world within
earshot – to give her space and
a prince to quench her thirst – all
upon a carpenter’s afterthought.
– for Tod Johnson
drycrikjournal 