Oh, the hardness of wood

Wood, it is the substance of the game now; it is in play.  Make way for a more petrichor essence lingering in the air; it is not a unwanted scent but the sweetness and sultry nights of petals and poetry have fallen away…

Salutations: Pine, Ash, Beech, Maple, Cedar, Fir, Spruce, Oak and Hemlock…  Please know I never intended or wished for you to be severed from your copse, your weald or your thicket of solace.  You bow in my presence and afford me warmth as I lower my head because I am humbled by the beauty of your burning grain.  Still, you are only lumber pulled unwillingly from a grove and can never be part of my language of endearment, amore or anything by that name.

Is winter the cause of this timber “game” conundrum; will the crispness of spring’s thaw liberate me from this petrified forest woodland malaise?  Perhaps, if I am in one of my more patient moods and willing to pause, I shall spy the first crocus of spring and bath in its purple blue haze.

If I withhold my breath, I can “see beyond the forest” and past this vastness of desolate wood.  I’ve not given up the ghost; I still dream of you; I pretend I hear you breathe next to me as I sleep; I imagine all the ways I used to amuse you; it’s all I ever wished to do; I was your muse and you my beau.

Now back to these “lumberjacks”, these pushers of wood, I am not of this world and your realm of “simple hood”; I am different, not better, and this must be understood and please forgive me for casting you away now but for me you will never be any good.