It came quite unexpectedly.
The best things always do.
I stood beside the maple tree,
gripping the haft with tightened hands.
You were in the kitchen;
the morning frost had made a portrait
silhouette of you standing at the stove.
I swung the ax and felt lightning
as it stopped within the tree.
The wood was soft,
like the first cut into a buck.
It is a texture universal to the living.
And first a trickle, then a flood,
the xylem flowed down the battered trunk.
It was so golden,
like the rays of winter sun
bursting through the bedroom,
illuminating our entangled limbs.
We are just roots, entwined together
growing towards the scents of spring.
And every morning, before you wake,
I roll over to burrow my head
into your spectral stomach.
It is as warm as fresh batter
poured onto the griddle plate.

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