With two working around the spoiled wood
wet rot shredding a soft sleeting acquaintance
the largest cuts cedar board of the old forest
East of my thoughts this remnant for the finest
a breeze traffics by late Autumn warmth
to land so without past or future’s want
repairing a lapsing Federation window
when the edge fell across my staging thumb
slicing cinnabar to the off white day
a hone of each so intimate for one another
James Walton Poetry 