Tongue and Groove

　　Dave Smith

　　Forms a lock. But how does it begin in this world? The twig(嫩枝)

　　falls, snaring(捕捉) another, and another, a storm's blackness

　　gathers and sends its will scudding down and over the quiet

　　niches of the forest, where a nest of barky remnants

　　holds, waiting it seems, and is then lifted, swirled away.

　　Like the afterlife. We never see where they land or in what shape.

　　We mimic what we can. We remember. We say this way.

　　The shadow man's fingers feel the groove. Fits to it

　　a piece of firm, now barkless(無(wú)樹皮的) wood, slender and pliant,

　　then into it, then deeper, snugly(舒適地) , and carries it with him a while.

　　When the wall stands, ugly and crude, needing its wind-cover,

　　the hand, after the night with love, fashions plank and rib,

　　wets for entry, slides, sees this cannot be easily parted.

　　Long years hold up the rich color, the vein-mapping.

　　Some like to sand hard, thinking to get back the early patina(銅綠，光澤) .

　　My wife from the first wanted to paint it brilliant cloud white.

　　Such an old look, such dour(嚴(yán)厲的) faces. At last I gave in.

　　The paper, medium rough, slid like a small hill of gravel

　　loosing the smell of pine sap. I could see the shadow

　　felling the tree, making the rib, the lock, nailing up forever

　　what would soon be lost in the sailing white, layered like mist

　　you cannot see through. The little nail holes puttied-in,

　　like eyes, slab after slab shoulder to shoulder, knots where

　　limbs grew, room like a snow-crypt. We live here.

　　Still, I know stains will rise some day, the lock split apart.