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Blood curdles into the grain
Mixes fresh with old
Responding, the sap sings
Though long dead and now discarded
Roughly hewn and unplaned
Yours the only carpenter’s hands
It has ever known
Sings then, and rises
Green shoots writhing
With untameable life
Curling, encircling the rusting nails
Budding in split beams
Filling the cracks with flowers
Rising from wooden wounds.
Art and text © Keren Dibbens-Wyatt